PostMarital Sabotage
by That.Other.Boleyn.Girl
Summary: Because Sherlock Holmes knows, more than anyone else, that it never just ends with the wedding vows. Holmes/Watson, EXTENDED TO FIVE-SHOT.
1. Part I: A Slip of the Tongue

**A/N: A little bit of fun. Well, it does have a bit of a serious side, but I wrote it for fun. This is set maybe six months after Watson's marriage; I've decided to skip over/ignore the whole Professor Moriarty arc, because it complicates matters and I'm lazy. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: **Guy Ritchie owns the film, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters. (Although I wouldn't mind owning Jude Law... someday. :wink:)

**Please don't forget to review!**

**

* * *

****Post-Marital Sabotage**

0-0-0

I. A Slip of the Tongue

At first, as Holmes unfalteringly insisted, it was "for the sake of old times" – casual little drop-in visits, always _en route_ to someplace else or other; to meet with a client over a new case perhaps, or to one of the leading art museums in London, or to an associate whose knowledge in some obscure minutiae demanded Sherlock's immediate attention.

Watson, who knew Holmes to be one who never budged from 221b Baker Street short of a new case or an international disaster (and who also happened to know that the Bond Street galleries were in the opposite direction to his own new apartments), nonetheless never commented on these petty excuses. To both him and Holmes, these excuses were socially expected but ultimately unimportant – which was why the latter never bothered with their plausibility. Watson's housekeeper was not a very bright sort and the slightest explanation, no matter how ridiculous, was enough to satisfy her curiosity. In time, she grew accustomed to Holmes' eccentric form on the apartment steps and knew to let him in to the parlour or sitting room, regardless of the time or his pretext-of-the-moment.

And there, in said parlour or sitting room, Watson would inevitably be. Sometimes writing, sometimes smoking, sometimes half-asleep with a newspaper open on his chest.

But always there.

And Mary Watson always was _not_.

The first few visits, Watson hadn't noticed this fact. He'd been too delighted (a little relieved, as well) that his close companion of three years or so had finally resolved to acknowledge his marriage. It was only after the third or fourth visit, after Mary had asked him in that sweet voice of hers at breakfast how his detective friend was getting along, that he'd realised Sherlock's impeccable timing.

It wasn't that the _length_ of his visits were consistent. Sometimes he stayed for the better half of an afternoon; other times he stayed only long enough to down a cup of tea and rearrange some of Watson's furniture to suit his own tastes when the younger man wasn't looking.

("I do wish you'd stop that," Watson had told him once on such an occasion, upon which Holmes' reply had been a "Yes, my boy, of course" followed by the repositioning of Watson's writing desk.)

No, it was rather the meticulous _timing_ of each of his visits which, at first, gave Watson a sense of amusement but which eventually petered out into a nagging annoyance. Sherlock somehow always contrived to arrive exactly five minutes after Mary had left, or leave exactly five minutes before Mary arrived; such consistency could only point to design. Having reconciled himself to the idea that Holmes no longer opposed his marriage with Mary, such a blatant unwillingness to meet the household's mistress stuck like a splinter in John Watson's mind.

Sandwiched firmly between his wife and his immature best friend was not a pleasant place to be.

And so, on that afternoon in 1892, upon catching a glimpse of Holmes' battered hat in the street below from an upstairs window, Dr John H. Watson, M.D., decided to settle the damned matter once and for all.

0-0-0

The stormy expression on Watson's face as he entered was enough to warn Holmes of what was coming.

"Halloa, old chap," the latter said, deciding not to comment on it and draping his overcoat over a chair instead. "Dreadful weather. I was headed for the station, but the train comes at three and it being only twelve o'clock, I thought I had time enough to drop in and – "

"Holmes."

Watson, Holmes noted aimlessly to himself, had a really telling habit whenever he was truly irritated, and that was one of purpose. Squared shoulders, set jaw, folded arms on the strong chest. A gaze that could have dispensed lead bullets.

Holmes sank into the armchair nearest the window with an unconcerned sigh. He'd felt those bullets before; they didn't bother him unduly.

"What is it, Watson?"

"It's about Mary."

"Of course it is. Pray continue. Ah, and here comes Ms Turner with the tea; immaculate timing, as always. Would you be kind enough to bring up some sandwiches, Ms Turner? The cold ham and Cheshire cheese currently in your kitchen would suffice. I haven't yet had lunch, and your sandwiches are divine. Oh, and there will be no need to knock when you come up, we'll be expecting you. Thank-you."

Watson watched, almost impatiently, as the old housekeeper reddened under Sherlock's praise and bobbed a few clumsy, unnecessary curtsies before backing herself out of the door again.

"Holmes," he started as soon as she was gone, "I need to know the meaning of this immediately. You've visited me no less than fifteen times now since my marriage."

"Seventeen, actually, if you count today."

"The exact number is beside the point. You have visited me quite a few times after my marriage, and each time you have _made sure_ to avoid meeting Mary. She has been very keen to renew her acquaintance with you, and you have steadfastly refused to see her. I demand an explanation."

"The laws of probability, my dear Watson, give no explanations."

"When you're involved, Holmes, probability doesn't come into the equation. I know you have been avoiding her on purpose."

"Oh?" Holmes gave a noncommittal sniff and patted his pockets for his pipe. "How so?"

"How so?" Watson repeated, incredulous. Holmes was looking at him with a bland, feigned interest on his face, a look which he took care to be transparent enough for the doctor to notice. Watson felt his eye twitch. "You know exactly how so! You never visit me whenever Mary is at home. Do you remember that time when you didn't visit for a week – because Mary stayed home all that week, in the hope she would meet you? And the very week after that, she left for her brother's for five days and you visited _every one of those days_. When she returned, you kept your distance again. Surely you remember the incident."

"Correlation, dear Watson, does not equate to causation."

"No, but it definitely makes a strong case for it!"

"Ah, there you err. Let me put a hypothetical situation to you, Watson, to make my point."

"I don't need – "

Holmes cut him off, waving his lit pipe about dismissively. "I wish to make clear my point, Watson. Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that I walked out of this door at this very moment and picked seventeen women off the street. No, Watson, don't interrupt, that shows terrible manners. Now," he continued, as Watson clamped his mouth shut with a glare, "let us also assume that of these seventeen women, all seventeen were six foot tall and wearing exactly the same brand of gloves. Do I then automatically and logically assume that, because of this data, all tall women wear Harrods gloves? Here you may interrupt, Watson, with an appropriate answer. Is such a deduction logical?"

"No," Watson muttered irritably through clenched teeth. "Of course not. That wasn't what I – "

"Is it likewise logical to deduce that all women who wear Harrods gloves must be tall?"

"No, Holmes, and I didn't say – "

"Naturally, then, we may extend such a hypothetical scenario to the present one of which we are discussing – that of my visits, and of Mary's absence during them. It must therefore follow that there is no evidence at all that I time my visits to your home in direct purpose to avoid meeting Mary here. It is merely coincidence. _Quod erat demonstrandum_."

"You can tangle me in rhetoric as much as you like," Watson interjected angrily, "but we both know what you're doing. Each of the seventeen times – including today, might I add – "

"Go on."

"I would if you'd stop interrupting me!"

A self-satisfied smirk had begun to creep across Sherlock's face, which only managed to make things worse. Watson had to physically restrain himself from taking the five steps across the sitting room floor to punch the amusement off his friend's face.

"I have ceased to interrupt you, my dear doctor. Do continue."

"Each of the seventeen times you have visited, Mary has not been home. I'd say that was more than coincidence."

"If you insist on such a notion, then – if it indeed is more than coincidence – how can you prove that it has not been Mary avoiding _me_?"

"Don't be absurd."

"I am being perfectly reasonable."

"What reason would Mary have for avoiding you? She has wanted to meet you ever since your first visit."

"What reason would I have for avoiding Mary? If I call upon your house, doctor, I must naturally be wishing to call upon its occupants. Including Miss Morstan, as I see it, since she also resides here."

"She is Mrs Watson now, Holmes."

For a moment, that seemed to unsettle the previously imperturbable detective. The smoke from his pipe paused halfway through his lips. He recovered quickly, however, and flashed Watson a disarming smile.

"Of course. A slip of the tongue, nothing more."

Watson sighed, shaking his head. He knew, more than anyone else alive, how stubborn Sherlock Holmes could be once he'd made his mind up about something or other; more than once they'd bickered about the position of some ornament in the sitting room of Baker Street, Watson shifting it to his favoured position one day and Holmes shifting it back to his the next, resulting in a silent war in which the poor ornament was transferred from one site to the other, back and forth, on a daily basis for up to months on end.

And now the ornament in question was Mrs Mary Watson – and Holmes' favoured position for her was out of Watson's life entirely.

Well, Watson was having none of _that_.

"She's my _wife_ now, Holmes. I married her. I love her."

Slight irritation moved across Sherlock's face like a spasm. "Now you're the one who's being absurd."

"Absurd! How dare you – "

"You know very well, Watson, that you don't love her at all."

Watson was in front of Holmes' armchair in a second, his fist rising up to collide harshly with the seated man's jaw. Sherlock's head snapped to one side, his lips making a slight moue of surprise. The second blow he blocked with a forearm, before leaning back with a placating hand on Watson's wrist and a half-smile on his mouth. Watson glared, but didn't try to hit him again.

"Why, I'd forgotten how fast you are when you're angry, old boy," Holmes said then, with a light laugh. "Well, you've knocked my pipe well away. I hope it doesn't set anything on fire. It was lit, you know."

"On fire!" came a sudden shrill voice from outside the room, followed by a loud clatter. Watson started sharply, although Holmes did not. The door to the sitting room opened, and there stood Ms Turner, hands wringing in her apron, her simple face obviously horrified. "On fire! You must excuse me, sirs – I really must – I can't let – you know – "

Watson wrenched his wrist away, breathing hard.

"I think it is somewhere over there," Holmes gestured vaguely, giving Watson an indulgent smile as Ms Turner immediately hurried to the corner in question and began patting around on the floor. "Not there? Well. Perhaps it is underneath that bookcase. I do beg your pardon, Ms Turner. I wouldn't have dropped it, had not the good doctor surprised me so."

_The rascal,_ Watson thought, fuming. _He knew she was there. He knows very well I can't hit him again with her watching. What a typical thing for Holmes to do to get himself out of trouble._

Followed quickly by, _And now my housekeeper thinks I'm a violent thug, which is always a bonus for Holmes, I guess._

He shifted irritably, moving to the settee opposite to avoid the temptation to hit Sherlock Holmes again. And then he saw the black object on Holmes' stomach.

"Oh, for God's sake, Holmes, let the poor woman alone. The pipe is in your lap. I can see it, just above your belt."

"Why, yes, here it is. Never mind, Ms Turner. The pipe is here. And it has gone out, too."

"Oh, thank God – the Lord – never would have done – on fire – upon my word – "

"You may leave now, Ms Turner, thank-you," Watson interrupted, a little ungraciously.

The little woman drew herself up with a huff, and with no good feeling towards the master of the house, left the room, no doubt to clean up the ham and cheese sandwiches that she'd dropped in the corridor in her haste.

As the door closed behind her, Holmes stood up.

"My, it's one-thirty already. How quickly time flies when you're agreeably engaged. Well, I suppose I must be off now, old boy. No need to see me out. I know my way by now."

And then he was gone before Watson had time to react, his overcoat thrown crisply over his shoulders and his voice in the corridor, obviously pleased with himself: "Good-bye, Ms Turner. No, I'm quite alright. And, I must say, I'm awfully sorry about the sandwiches."

0-0-0

"Mrs Hudson."

Said landlady paused, visibly stunned, an empty silver tray in her hand. Sherlock Holmes very rarely called her by her name. Of course, now that Watson was no longer in residence at Baker Street, his attitude to her had grudgingly improved – out of sheer necessity. Holmes didn't know how to press his own shirts.

"You called, sir?"

"I – er – yes, I need your advice on a very delicate matter."

She looked at him, puzzled. "What matter, sir? You know I am not familiar with crime and cases. You had best consult Dr Watson, or Inspector Lestrade, on that."

"I had rather consult you than Inspector Lestrade on _any_ case," Holmes commented dryly. "No, it has nothing to do with – er, crime. Well, strictly speaking, it doesn't. It has to do with Dr Watson."

"What about him, sir?"

"You've been a housekeeper for this residence for many years, correct?"

"Twenty-three, sir."

"And you've been housekeeper for Watson and I for three."

"Yes."

"Would it be fair to say, then, that you know Watson's habits – well, intimately, so to speak? After being a landlady for over twenty years, you must have extensive experience in human observation. I am merely wondering how firm a grasp you have on his character."

Mrs Hudson blinked at him, her mind not trained to think in the elaborate circles that Holmes' presence demanded. She sat down in confusion.

"Well, I suppose I understand him reasonably well," she managed.

"Excellent! Excellent. Now, Mrs Hudson, I want you to consider very carefully, a certain – scenario. Imagine a man, very, very similar to Watson – not Watson, of course. But very similar."

"Yes, sir."

"Very good. Now, how would you describe this man? His likes, his dislikes, and so on."

"I'm not sure what – "

"Would he be a man of action, or of languor?"

"Er, I – "

"Action, correct? That is what I believed also. How very good of you to concur with me, Mrs Hudson. Now – being a man of action, he must necessarily be restless. Such a man would not easily adapt to domesticity, would he?"

"I don't think – "

"Of course he wouldn't. I'm glad we agree on that point. Now, if we proceed in this hypothetical strain, we may extend our analysis to wedlock. Wedlock is an extreme form of domesticity, yes?"

"Well, sir, I – "

"And wedlock must thus be very restraining to such a man necessarily opposed to domesticity."

"I'm not – "

"Such a man would hence, given the opportunity to realise how his very nature strains against the concept of wedlock, rebel against it – this would logically follow, would it not?"

Mrs Hudson gave him a flustered look. "Mr Holmes, I really do not think – "

"We are not, of course, referring directly to Dr Watson."

"Mr Holmes," the poor landlady cried, speaking very fast to prevent another interruption, "I must confess I have no idea what you are trying to say!"

Sherlock Holmes merely waved her protest aside. "A close friend to such a man trapped in wedlock would therefore be perfectly justified in making him realise his predicament, yes? Of course. You do not need to say anything more, Mrs Hudson – I understand your sentiments exactly. It is always such a great relief to have one's intimate thoughts echoed in another's mind. You have been invaluable, Mrs Hudson. You may return to your work."

0-0-0

"Ah, good morning, my dear fellow. You're up early today."

Watson blinked at the figure lounging comfortably on the settee, feet propped up carelessly on the seat's right arm. The frown which formed naturally beneath his moustache quickly gave way to a triumphant smirk.

"You've overreached yourself, Holmes. Mary is in the house. In fact, she will probably be coming down in little more than an hour or so."

To his surprise, Holmes smiled. "That's perfectly well."

"Will you be off soon, then?"

"No, I don't think I will."

"You'll stay? And see Mary?"

Holmes sat up a little to shoot an indignant look at his friend. "Have I ever made any verbal indication that I did not wish to see Miss Mors – Mrs Watson? You do me an injustice, dear doctor. I have nothing against the good lady." He paused, reconsidering. "Except, perhaps, that her voice is too shrill. And her manner is too affected. And her charms are all unforgivably domestic."

"You," said Watson dryly, "of all individuals, are accusing my wife of having an _affected manner_."

"With good reason, old boy, with good reason."

Watson scoffed and reached for the teapot, pouring himself a cup of Earl Grey. The cold morning air, entering from an open window, brushed over his bare forearms as he rolled up his shirt sleeves. From the open door came the smell of fresh toast and eggs as Ms Turner prepared the usual breakfast.

"I see you've thought about our conversation yesterday," Sherlock said to his back.

"On the contrary, Holmes, I haven't given it a moment's reflection."

"You're lying. Your shoulders always tense up when you lie, it is quite a bad habit. You really should endeavour to give it up."

Watson sighed, deciding it was better to just get it over with.

"What are you trying to do, Holmes? I'm afraid I don't understand you. I don't understand for a moment what you're trying to do."

"There go your shoulders again; you're lying. Really, Watson. Look. You should see your shoulders. I never saw anything more transparent."

"Just answer the question, Holmes."

"Very well." The settee groaned as the detective redistributed his weight – no doubt to get a better view of Watson's reaction. "I shall be perfectly frank with you, doctor. I should have made this point clearer before you were married, but of course there is nothing to be done about spilt milk. It is my firm belief, upon clear observation of both your character and that of Miss Mary's, that you will not be happy in marriage with her."

"Upon what grounds?" Watson said, finding his own voice surprisingly calm.

"Firstly, that she cannot possibly understand you. She, as a governess, sheltered her entire life in London – what could she know of your suffering in Afghanistan? She – who would faint at the slightest drop of blood – what could she understand of the carnage of those brutal war years, except to fear them, pity them, perhaps? I know you, Watson. You wouldn't want her pity; you wouldn't know what to do with her fear. Do you intend to spend the rest of your married life bottling up those years deep inside you, afraid to show her that part of yourself with which she, and everything she stands for, would be incongruous?"

"You are mistaken." Watson fought to keep his shoulders relaxed. "She knows all about my time in Afghanistan. She asked me about it herself."

"It won't do, Watson. You give yourself away."

"She is a woman, Holmes! No woman would understand a war. Your argument cannot hold, unless you expect me to believe that all war veterans are incapable of marrying happily."

"Others may be happy – but not you, I think. Domesticity doesn't suit you. You'll grow weary of it, soon."

"It suits me damn fine!"

"Give it a year or so, then." Holmes shrugged, easing himself off the settee. "In the meantime, I am going to get myself a cup of tea."

Watson turned to watch as Holmes poured out the hot liquid (no sugar – Watson knew this without looking) and sank haphazardly into a chair closer to him. Watson, for his part, chose to remain standing by the open window.

"I hope that was not your sole argument against my marriage, Holmes."

"Oh, it wasn't, I assure you." Sherlock paused to take a sip of tea before continuing. "You see, the second issue is a more serious extension of the first. You are, Watson, by nature a gambler, a heavy drinker, and rather loose with your money, if I may say so myself. Now don't be offended, old boy," he said quickly, catching the look in Watson's eye, "I have no desire to be punched again. I am merely summarising your greatest faults as I have observed them in the time that we have lived together. Being a frequenter of underground boxing rings myself, and also being rather fond of my liquor, I am not assuming a stance of moral superiority."

"You are alluding, perhaps, to your belief that Mary _does_ have such a superiority."

"Precisely, dear Watson."

"Then you are mistaken again. Mary has never – "

"Of course not," Holmes interrupted impatiently. "You've given up those things, haven't you? A nightcap before bed is your limit, etcetera. But how long will that last? Knowing you, my money is on just under a year."

"Holmes, what are you trying to say?"

"That you need someone who can accept your faults, rather than singularly condemning them."

Watson laughed. He couldn't help himself.

"You want me to marry a woman who'd _encourage_ me to be immoral?"

"Morality is merely a relative scale," Holmes offered mildly. "It has no precise definition."

"The same thing could be said about your cases, then," Watson pointed out angrily. "You have no _moral_ obligation to solve them, if morality is relative."

"Of course not. But I do have an _intellectual_ obligation."

Watson gaped at him, hardly believing his ears. "Do you mean to say – "

"We are off-topic," Holmes interposed. "The focus is on you, not on my crime-solving motivation. Your marriage to Mary Morstan – "

"Must what? _End_?" Watson placed his teacup down a little harder than necessary. "All your reasons mean nothing now that I'm actually married."

"They are valid reasons though, you must admit."

"I don't have to admit anything, Holmes!"

"Then you're in denial."

"I am _not_ in – "

"John?"

Both men jumped at the unexpected voice. Holmes – still with teacup in hand – managed to spill a large quantity of Earl Grey on his waistcoat, though he didn't seem to notice. Watson snatched the cup from him and put it back in its saucer on the table, more out of consideration for the upholstery than for the detective himself.

"Mrs Watson," Holmes murmured, giving her a wide smile. "You surprised us."

"I am glad John was up early today, or we might have missed you completely. I know I've missed you often enough, Mr Holmes."

Holmes stood calmly, pressing his lips to Mary's knuckles. "Watson was just telling me about how well married life is suiting him."

"Yes, I was," Watson said harshly, ignoring the amused glint in Sherlock's eye. At the obvious sincerity in his best friend's voice, the confidence on Holmes' face faltered for the very first time.

0-0-0

That night, in bed with Mary's sleeping head on his shoulder, Watson thought about what Sherlock Holmes had said.

This had, of course, not been the first time Holmes had played saboteur in regard to Watson's marriage. Upon reflection, it had probably not even been the tenth. But it had been the first time Holmes had been direct about his opinion, about his reading of Watson's attitude to his bride. Previously content to manipulate behind-the-scenes, palming off gypsy girls and the sort, Holmes was apparently no longer satisfied with such subtlety – especially when said subtlety had proved no deterrent whatsoever to Watson's attentions to Miss Mary Morstan.

Watson shifted uneasily at the thought, curling an arm around Mary's waist. When Sherlock Holmes solved a case, he did so with a clear objective in mind, never swerving from his vision of said objective no matter what his opponents (or Scotland Yard) threw at him. He never stopped until he had what he wanted.

So what did Sherlock Holmes want, in this case?

A divorce between Watson and his bride of six months?

But Watson knew – and so must Sherlock Holmes – that by law, the only ground for divorce was marital crime. Adultery by one of the two parties involved. Mary, in her sweet and innocent loyalty, could never be prevailed upon to do such a thing.

Watson shivered as the parts clicked themselves into place. This reached beyond a simple, childish jealousy to have a favourite companion at one's side indefinitely.

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be the truth._

0-0-0

For the next few days, Watson threw himself into work. His practice – although not very illustrious – was nonetheless a very welcome distraction. For nine days, he left his home and his wife early in the morning and returned very late at night. He immersed himself in cases of cramp and ague, of influenza and consumption, of strep throat and pneumonia.

Anything but Sherlock Holmes.

Mary fretted, rather predictably, that he was wearing himself out. This fretting he found most irritating. And then, as soon as he'd thought this, he'd been appalled with himself and had apologised to her, much to her surprise. A wife certainly had a right to be concerned over her husband. He had not grounds to be impatient with her.

"You are being most strange, my dear," Mary had commented afterwards. "Are you feeling quite well?"

"Yes, sweetheart. I am fine."

But he'd not been. Despite his attempt at self-distraction, the uneasiness had been planted firmly there. Sherlock Holmes – in his remarkable way of getting under the skin of everybody he knew – had made him restless, had made him doubt himself.

And then – what had it been, that he'd said?

_You need someone who can accept your faults, rather than singularly condemning them._

On the tenth night, determined to prove to himself that Holmes' comments were completely unfounded, Watson had deliberately gotten himself in a fight and come home smelling distinctly of gin. The ashen look on Mary Watson's face – concern, but predominantly one of hurt indignation – had shaken him. She'd admonished him in her gentle but serious manner, preached to him of his reputation and hers. He was a doctor now. He'd told her he'd left such vulgar habits behind – what would others think of him, if he relapsed into them once more?

"What do _you_ think of me, Mary?" he'd asked her that night.

"Go to bed, John," had been the measured reply.

And the uncertainty that Holmes had predicted would surface had done so, and for the first time since his marriage, John Watson had wondered if he'd made a mistake.

* * *

**A/N: Part II: A Very Valid Assumption will be up sometime next week.**

**Please don't forget to review!!**


	2. Part II: A Very Valid Assumption

**A/N: I had originally intended to post this up next week - but then I figured that that was cruel and unnecessary since I had already written it, and so I've decided to post it now.**

**Thank-you so much to those whom reviewed Part I, namely: SutaakiHitori, Jabberhut, Shella, PeanutTree, Lucy'sDaydreams, Alice Dodgson, Chromde, Positively, Kyla45, Basia Orci, roxxihearts, Mcbnotredame7, Stick-Em-Up-Punk, Anneka Neko, Shinobi Mi-chan, Twila Reaux, sulie, george, passionfornight, wlk68, methegirl, Forget and Forgive, blanc-hiver, tinkertailor, evilgreenmunkii, Caunoiech, and theGreyPebble! Really appreciated!**

**Please don't forget to review for this Part II: A Very Valid Assumption!**

* * *

II. A Very Valid Assumption

Sherlock Holmes didn't quite know when he'd first begun to think of Watson differently than as a mere partner, companion, friend, and room-mate.

Upon the continuum of their experiences together, it was not possible to pinpoint an exact moment of realisation, of self-awareness. It had, quite simply, _happened_. There was no explanation for it, which irked Holmes incessantly – the lack of logic in the situation which had inevitably developed went against all his better intellectual instincts.

In time, Watson's company had become more than just that of convenience; it had become a steadying factor, an anchor of sorts which had prevented Sherlock from spinning out of control. Whenever he came dangerously close to doing so – signed up for more fights than he could physically manage, or downed a few too many bottles of unidentifiable alcoholic beverage – there Watson always was in his calm and omniscient way, to berate him, to soothe him, to stitch him up, to dust him down, to haul him out, to drag him in, to punch him back to his senses if the need arose. Pounding hangovers were bearable with Watson to bring in the tea. Broken ribs were alright with Watson to tuck him to bed. Even arguments with Watson were almost enjoyable, because when he was annoyed Watson had a darling way of furrowing his brows that Holmes secretly found to be very endearing.

And then there had been that time two years ago – when Watson, drunk as a dog and barely coherent, had grabbed his wrist and said to him –

Well.

By the time Holmes had realised his dependence on Watson, it had been too late for him to try and quit the habit.

Indeed, for a brief while, Holmes had believed there was no need to try and quit. Watson didn't appear to be going anywhere. Holmes understood that attachment made him vulnerable, but Watson knew how to take care of himself – he wasn't a helpless woman, he was a capable man. There was a bond between the two of them, and Holmes had been self-confident (and, indeed, selfish) enough to believe that it would never be broken.

And then Miss Mary Morstan had come along.

0-0-0

Watson gave Mrs Hudson a small smile, touching the rim of his top-hat as she opened the door. He was dressed in a long brown overcoat, under which a grey cut-away frock coat and matching grey waistcoat peeped out almost sheepishly. He carried with him the sharp smell of iodoform from the practice, and he leaned upon his usual cane.

"Dr Watson!"

"Mrs Hudson," and he gave her a grateful nod. "I trust Holmes is in?"

Hardly were the words out of his mouth when there came a great crash from somewhere upstairs. Mrs Hudson jumped visibly, but Watson barely even flinched.

"Never mind," he muttered as she let him in.

The familiar smell of the Baker Street parlour, with its wobbling coat-rack and thick, worn carpet, brought a wave of nostalgia over him and he stood motionless for a while, taking it all back in. Holmes hadn't changed it – even the paintings on the wall were the same. He breathed in deeply, disconcertingly aware that despite everything, it was this apartment that felt like home.

"Mr Holmes has been in the sitting room for – three days now. He refuses to let me in, doctor." Mrs Hudson leaned in closer, as if confiding in a secret. "He hasn't eaten since Friday. He simply will not come out. I am quite concerned for him; perhaps you can – "

Another crash, followed by several loud thumps, cut her off. Watson frowned.

"Since Friday? Well, it's probably just that he hasn't yet, er, felt hungry."

"I hope so." Mrs Hudson's voice had sunk to a whisper. "He has been very peculiar lately." When Watson didn't respond, she said quickly, "I am so glad you are here, doctor. So very glad. I'll make tea."

"And bring up dinner as well, thank-you."

"Will you stay to take it with him, doctor?"

Watson hesitated, folding his overcoat over his arm. "Yes. Yes, I will. Not for supper, though – I'm expected home before then."

"Certainly."

It was a lie – Mary had left to visit relatives in the country, no doubt in response to the dishevelled manner in which he'd returned to the house on the night before last. Mrs Hudson – too straightforward to detect this mistruth – only smiled and bustled off to the kitchen. Watson watched her go, waiting until she'd disappeared completely before beginning to climb the stairs to the sitting room.

There were muffled scrapes and footsteps from above as he did so. Watson paused on the landing, head cocked to one side as he listened.

Holmes was apparently _very_ busy.

Watson – who knew Holmes well enough to know precisely what it was he was doing – graciously gave him a moment or two before moving to the sitting room door, rapping on it sharply with his knuckles.

"Holmes?"

A few more shuffles – and then silence.

"Ahem. Yes, the door is unlocked, old fellow. Come in."

Sherlock Holmes was seated in his favourite armchair, a leather-bound book (one he'd obviously just snatched from the bookshelf, as it was upside-down) in his lap and his clay pipe dangling precariously from his mouth. His stance was relaxed, but Watson could tell from the flushed look on his face that he'd rushed about in the moments before the door was opened.

That – and there were a number of empty whiskey bottles stashed inexpertly under the settee, and which had obviously not been there before Watson's arrival at Baker Street.

Holmes followed Watson's gaze, and shifted uncomfortably.

"Erm, have a seat, my dear Watson. I wasn't expecting you, although it is very good of you to call."

"You've been busy in my absence, I see."

The sitting room had become even more cluttered in the six months that Watson had been away; no mean feat, considering how much Watson had removed from it upon his departure. A thin sheen of dust hung over everything, books piled haphazardly on the floor and on tables, clean clothing and clothing that was not so clean dangling from chair-backs and from drawer handles.

Watson picked his way carefully to a nearby chair, unable to resist the smile which had emerged at the sight of such familiar surroundings.

"Well, I have been handling quite a few cases. Alone, of course."

"And these are the souvenirs?" Watson tilted his head at a jewelled snuffbox on the desk. "What's that?"

"Oh, a token of appreciation from the royal family of Holland."

"Is that a Corot on the wall?"

"My own imitation of _Volterra_. I confess I was not in my most artistic mood when I created it."

"Evidently," Watson said wryly, "if you bothered to paint a Corot at all."

Holmes said nothing, not rising to the familiar bait. With a look in his eye that betrayed his happiness at seeing his friend, he laid the book aside and pointed at Watson with his pipe.

"I am glad you are no longer angry with me, Watson. And I am glad, too, that Mary is out of town – you will, of course, be staying to supper? No, I shan't hear your excuses. You will stay – for the night, too. Your practice will surely not be open tomorrow morning, on a Sunday."

Watson laughed lightly. "You are trying quite hard to leave me with no choice but to accept, Holmes."

"Naturally, naturally, old boy! Baker Street has been quite bland without you, you know."

"Why do you not let my old rooms out to someone else, then? That would provide you with company, and ease any difficulties with rent."

The mouth behind the pipe fell silent. A brooding look entered Sherlock's face, rendering it almost sullen.

Watson resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I hope you're not sulking, Holmes. I'm merely being practical, you understand."

"Yes, of course you are."

"Mrs Hudson tells me you haven't eaten in days."

"That meddling old nanny," Holmes muttered darkly, tapping the pipe against his thigh. "Always trying to clean me or feed me or get me out of the house. Quite intolerable. As if I weren't a fully-grown human being."

Watson spluttered with laughter, then (catching the startled way Holmes looked at him) quickly altered it to an unconvincing cough. Holmes, whose surprise swiftly became something else, leaned forward eagerly at Watson's evident good humour.

"How long will Mary be in the country? You must stay at Baker Street in the meantime. It is really the only proper thing to do, you know."

"How did you know she was in the country to begin with, Holmes? I never told you."

"I deduced it. If she were in London, you would not visit me so near to dinnertime."

"Yes, that is true," Watson admitted, remembering how Mary always insisted on their taking dinner together each night.

"Well? What say you to my proposal?"

"You know very well that I can't accept it, Holmes. I can't neglect my practice, and it is really an inconvenient distance from here. I would be much better at home."

"Hmm." Sherlock drew back again in resigned disappointment. "I suppose I shall have to be content with you staying just tonight. But – hmm? Oh, Mrs Hudson. No, you may not come in. I won't have you ladling pea soup down my throat."

"Come in," Watson called, shooting Holmes a glare. "If you're not hungry, Holmes, I am. I'm not prepared to miss dinner just for the sake of your obstinacy."

Once Mrs Hudson had backed out of the room again, Holmes opened a napkin and dug into the food with relish, apparently unaware of the irony in such an enthusiastic reaction.

"What was I saying? Oh. But have you thought over what I said to you, old boy? About Mary. I know it is a sore subject with you, but I only have your best interests at heart."

"As always."

"You doubt my motives, Watson."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do."

"They are perfectly honourable motives, you know."

"Alright," said Watson, setting down his fork, "let's have it out, then. If you believe Mary is not the woman for me (which is a moot point, by the way, since I'm already married) – then who do you suggest? Describe her for me, Holmes."

Holmes' eyes rose to the ceiling, as they always did when he thought. "Adventurous."

"Mmm."

"Intelligent."

"Of course."

"Capable, bold, courageous, resolute."

"You are thinking of Irene Adler."

"Indeed, I am not," Holmes objected, with some surprise. "I assure you, I have not thought of Miss Adler for months, not since she vanished after the Hindelbrot affair."

"Then who are you thinking of? Apart from her, I know of no woman with those precise qualities."

Sherlock's eyes fixed on the ceiling again. "No, me neither."

Watson scoffed, reached for the bottle of wine Mrs Hudson had generously provided. "So you have been envisioning me with a woman who does not exist."

"My dear Watson, I don't remember specifying a gender."

Watson's hand froze. "What?"

"I never explicitly stated I was thinking of a woman. You made the assumption yourself."

"A very valid assumption, I think, considering the laws of the country we reside in, Holmes." Watson shook his head in disbelief, his hand dropping limply onto the tablecloth. "You are impossible. I can't even begin to fathom what you are attempting to suggest."

"No, me neither," Holmes countered lightly, although Watson didn't miss the sharp way those observant grey eyes fixed themselves on him.

Holmes was gauging his reaction – calculating probabilities, trying to probe him. The feeling was one of precise dissection, and Watson, knowing himself to be one who could be read with ease, tried to smooth over the moment by reaching for the wine again. Confusion made his movements clumsy and only his fast reflexes prevented him from knocking the bottle onto the floor.

"Here, allow me," said Holmes, taking it from him with a smile. "You are quite nervous all of a sudden, Watson. I wonder why?"

"I'm not nervous," Watson snapped shortly.

"If you say so." Holmes held out a full wine glass, jerking it back provocatively when Watson reached out to take it. "A moment, Watson. Let me demonstrate a certain principle to you."

Watson was visibly relieved at the change in subject. "Proceed then, Holmes."

"You are fond of your wine, yes? And Mrs Hudson has been kind enough to bring up the Médoc claret. Your favourite, if I recall correctly."

"That is true."

"You would, no doubt, have no qualms in drinking this glass of claret, then, if I were to hand it to you now."

"Also true."

Holmes brought the glass to his nose, swirling its contents and inhaling with the intellectual air of a connoisseur. "But what if, Watson, I did not place it in a glass – but in a common pitcher? No, my man, I do have a point, if you will be patient. Would the nature of its container, and the trivial distinctions between a pitcher and a proper wine glass, deter you from taking the wine as it is?"

Watson, used to Holmes' eccentric conversation topics, sighed.

"No, Holmes. It would still be a Médoc claret. Of course I would still drink it."

"What if there were strict societal objections to you drinking it from a pitcher? Lacking in manners, improper, reasons of that superficial sort. What then?"

"Well, those would be damnedly stupid reasons not to drink one of the best wines in the world! Provided the wine is not given to me in a pig trough, I fail to see the problem."

"Very good, Watson. You are a man after my own heart."

Holmes appeared very pleased, although Watson failed to understand why. He reached out for the glass again, but once more Holmes shifted it away from his grasp.

"Holmes, I really do wish – "

"Let me extend my principle a bit further. Let me present to you another wine I have here in the room – ah, here it is. A bit battered, I'll admit, but it is passable. Now, this is from an unknown vintage. It tastes ghastly in comparison to the Médoc, for obvious reasons."

"Sherlock – "

"I am going to pour the contents of this wine glass into a – soup bowl. I do not have a pitcher with me, so we will have to make do. Now, let me pour some of this unidentifiable disgrace to Dionysius into the wine glass, in place of the Médoc. Here, you see Watson, we have two choices – if I gave you a free, informed choice as to which you would take – the soup bowl or the wine glass – which would you choose? Keeping in mind that it is terrible manners to drink wine from a soup bowl."

"I would take the Médoc, naturally, so if you would just spare me the theorising and pass it to me, I – "

"Why would you take the Médoc, Watson?"

"Because I know I'd enjoy it infinitely more than the – other one, no matter what container it is in."

At this, Holmes leaned forward keenly, his face suddenly inches from Watson's own. The doctor breathed in sharply at the unexpected movement and pulled back a little.

"Holmes, what are you – "

"What if, in place of the wine glass, I presented to you someone of high social standing – respectable – but completely unsuited to your personality; and in place of the soup bowl, I presented to you someone who may not be as tailored to society's tastes, but whom would complement your character perfectly?"

"If the only objection to her was that she was poor, or something of that sort, I would have no qualms in marrying her if I really loved her."

"Good! Good."

Watson waited, but Holmes did not say anything more. He seemed to be thinking something over, planning the way it came out.

"May I have the wine now, Holmes, if you are quite finished?"

"What? Oh, certainly. Here." And then, unexpectedly: "What if the objection were not poverty – but that the individual in question was male?"

Watson choked on a mouthful of claret. Holmes watched him intensely as he pulled out a handkerchief and spluttered into it once or twice to clear his throat. When the cough subsided, Watson gave the face opposite him an incredulous look.

"Holmes, you keep alluding to something that is highly... immoral."

"As I stated on my last visit, morality is relative."

"You know you are only saying that to prove a point. You'd just as easily argue the opposite, if it would further your case."

"But it wouldn't, so I will adhere to my current argument."

"They are arresting people with your... moral code, you know, Holmes."

"What does that matter?" Holmes shrugged. "We have been arrested before, you know. It is not such a terrible ordeal."

"_We_?" Watson's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Watson, you cannot deny that we are well-suited to each other."

"I am a married man, Holmes."

"I fail to see why that is an issue."

"Do you?" Watson pushed his chair back indignantly and stood. "Well, I do not. If you think I would leave Mary for you, Holmes, you are gravely mistaken. I love Mary. I wish to spend the rest of my life with her."

"Then you are stubborn, and you are blind. I can see you are unhappy. Your clothes carry the faint scent of iodoform – you have been in the clinic, but the smell is not strong, and the clinic is not open on Saturdays. You have therefore not returned to your home to change your clothes since you were at the clinic on Friday, if not earlier. Your boots, furthermore, have not been recently cleaned – there is a very visible clump of mud adhering to your instep, which can only have happened on Thursday, when it rained heavily; further evidence that you have been avoiding your home. Your pocket-watch and your cuff-links are missing – did you gamble them away, Watson? And the distinctive aroma of whiskey about your jacket – you have been drinking. I can deduce rather easily that the idyll of domesticity in the Watson household has been disturbed – and drastically, too, for Mary to leave for the country."

"Enough!"

Watson turned for the door, furious. In a moment Holmes had snatched his shirt sleeve to hold him back.

"Please do not be offended, old boy. I did not mean to affront you."

"You meant to debase my relationship with my wife, and I will not stay to hear you debase it further!"

"My dear Watson, I am only trying to present to you the facts, as I see them."

Watson turned on him. "Holmes, you are trying to separate Mary and I. You have tried to do so the very moment I fell in love with her. Ever since I made clear to you I was going to marry her, you have pulled every conniving trick you know to force us apart. You have tried to sabotage my _happiness_, as no true friend should, or would! Are you really so _selfish_ as to – "

"Yes, Watson, I _am_ so selfish. And if you were too – if you lived for yourself, old boy, instead of for appearances – then you'd be much happier."

"You are assuming that I _want_ to be with you in such a – a – an inappropriate manner!"

"A very valid assumption, I think." Holmes' look was unnervingly steady, even as he threw Watson's own words back at him. "You told me as such on a night the year before last – after consuming a large quantity of alcohol, I'll admit. I dismissed it at the time, but I have reason now to believe that the sentiment was genuine."

Struck dumb by this sensational piece of information, Watson only gaped at him, open-mouthed.

"No, I am not lying," Sherlock continued, as if he'd read Watson's thoughts. "As manipulative as I am, I would not lie on such a point. I give you my solemn word, Watson, that I'm telling the truth."

"I – I don't – what are you – this is _absurd_! I have no memory of – "

"As I stated, you had been drinking quite heavily."

"I could have been talking to _anyone_ – "

"No, you addressed me by name, I remember that quite clearly."

Watson tried, and failed, so say something. Finally, he managed a small, "What did I say?"

"Your precise words were, I believe: _Holmes, if you were a woman, I think I'd marry you._"

Watson let out a shuddering breath. "Thank God."

"Hmm?"

"I believe the important words are, '_if you were a woman'_. But you are not, evidently. So what I said is not relevant."

"In the case of marriage, of course what you said was impractical. But it shows your acknowledgement of our... _yuan fen_, as the Chinese would admirably put it. In a rough translation, that comes across as our natural... chemistry. Our natural compatibility with each other."

"Holmes, I was drunk."

"A drunk man always tells the truth; a sober man never does. That is common knowledge, old boy."

Watson hesitated, torn between incredulity and a terrifying sense of relief. With a troubled frown, he sank heavily back into his chair, not meeting his friend's eyes across the table. What did it all mean? His sudden discontent with Mary – and Mary's sudden discontent with him. It had never happened before; before Holmes' first fatal visit a few weeks ago, he and his wife had been of one mind on everything, and they had been happy. Impossibly, completely, unalterably happy. Watson had settled into domestic routine as easily as a pebble sinking through water. He'd felt that he'd made the right choice, marrying Mary. Nothing had felt more natural, more appropriate. The sweet stillness of her face, and her soft hazel eyes – they had been what he'd wanted, what he'd wanted exclusively; and the lull, the quiet, peaceful lull of life with her had been what he'd desperately needed after three hectic years of residing with Holmes.

But now –

Was it possible, that he missed those years?

Was it possible – that he missed that unmistakeable rush of excitement, that _thrill_ – Holmes' eyes full of anticipation, sharp and steady as they sped through facts, scenarios, possibilities, motives? The endless bickering, the childish arguments they'd had. The steadying notion that, no matter what he did, he only ever had to look in front of him – because Sherlock Holmes would always be there, with a revolver in hand, to look behind.

Would he ever trust his life to Mary Morstan?

Would he?

He knew the answer was _No_.

And it was then that he realised with a kind of jolt – that he didn't know Mary Morstan at all.

She could've been anyone. Any woman at all. Afraid of his growing attachment to Holmes, and unable to come to terms with what it had meant, he'd reached out blindly for the first thing that had come along. Salvation had come in the form of grey-blue muslin, a sweet smile from beneath a sweet set of eyes. Mary Morstan was simply a set of clothes, an illusion – a self-deception, even. An attempt to escape a truth that he'd known all along, but had not been able (or, perhaps, simply _had not_ _dared_) to consciously acknowledge.

The thought disturbed him to the core. He trembled at it, knowing what it had to imply.

_I don't love Mary. I don't love Mary at all._

0-0-0

"You look shaken, old chap. I'm sorry. Here, have some cognac."

Holmes' voice was gentle. Watson took the proffered glass unseeingly and downed the contents in one miserable gulp.

Holmes poured him another, and he downed that too.

"My dear fellow, are you alright?"

The words came automatically: "Perfectly, Holmes. Perfectly."

"Perhaps you had best lie down. I'm sorry if what I've said has upset you; but, you see, I really had no choice. I've kept them down for a little over two years, and the past six months have made it impossible for me to keep them down for any longer."

"Of course."

Holmes hovered for a moment, but upon receiving no further reaction from Watson, went to the door.

"Mrs Hudson? The doctor is ready for bed. No, he won't be leaving tonight. You had best prepare his old room."

"No, don't bother," Watson mumbled. "Really."

"I know perfectly well what time it is, Mrs Hudson. Yes, the doctor wishes to go to bed at seven o'clock. There is nothing the matter with that, so if you would please – yes. His old room. What do you mean, it is not possible? Where on earth have you moved the mattress, then?"

"It doesn't matter, Holmes," Watson said, louder this time. "I'll just sleep on the settee here. Lord knows I've done that before."

"Blast the woman," Holmes said under his breath as he closed the door. "Dust mites, indeed. Well, you may have my bed then, Watson – it is doubtful I'll sleep tonight, anyway. I haven't done much sleeping these past few days."

"I can't divorce her, Holmes."

"What's that, old boy?"

Watson's voice was even more miserable than his face. "I haven't the heart to divorce her. It's not her fault. And – well, it's not possible to divorce her, anyway. She's a faithful woman."

"And you're a faithful man, I take it?"

Holmes watched with a sort of grudging respect as the old determination (something else that had endeared Watson to him) surfaced in the doctor's eyes again. If nothing else, John Watson had the admirable courage to face his mistakes – and their consequences – full on, unflinchingly.

"Yes." The word was accompanied by a curt nod. "I am a faithful man."

"I thought as such. Well, I won't ask for anything, Watson. Except that perhaps – if I have the whim – I may come and stay at your residence in future? I will not encroach on you and Mary. I would merely – enjoy your company."

"You would be welcome, Holmes."

"And if you have the time – perhaps you might not mind me consulting you on future cases? You know how much I value your contribution. I always find that – I work better with a partner, Watson."

The blue eyes finally met his and Watson smiled.

"Yes, I... would like that very much."

Holmes smiled back – a genuine, effusive smile that took the mechanical and unfeeling edge out of his grey eyes entirely. He suddenly felt giddy – felt light. Felt _alive_. It did not matter, now, that Watson was married to Mary; it did not matter that he had decided to be unswervingly faithful. Sherlock Holmes had never been one to value the physical above all else – just the confirmation, the silent acknowledgement in Watson's eyes, was enough.

Sherlock Holmes was a patient man. If it were three years – he'd wait. If it were thirty – he'd still wait.

He looked across at the strong face, the firm set of the jaw. A swift happiness that surpassed anything else he'd ever felt before overtook him, and he knew that John Watson alone understood.

0-0-0

**The End.**

**[EDIT - THIS IS NO LONGER THE END OF THE STORY. It's been extended to a Five-Shot!**

**So please continue reading! The next Chapter is up! :D]**

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**A/N: No explicit slash – because I felt that, in keeping with their characters, it would not happen at this point in time. All Holmes really set out to do was to make Watson understand that he and Mary were not 'meant to be'; it wasn't really in his plan to seduce him. Knowing Watson, he'd never consent to adultery anyway – he's just too upright a character, in my opinion.**

**BUT – I'm not quite content to leave this fic be the way it is. I am in the middle of writing a sequel – because (SPOILER ALERT) in the books, Mary Watson/Morstan dies after a few years of marriage. Would you guys like that? If not, I won't bother to finish it.**

**Anyway, any form of feedback would be appreciated! This is my first story in this fandom. I have tried to be true to their characters. I have also tried to balance frivolity with seriousness; I hope it worked out alright, and that the series of events was realistic. Let me know, in any case, what you thought!**

**PLEASE REMEMBER TO REVIEW/COMMENT BEFORE YOU GO!**

**Thank-you!**


	3. Part III: The Gargoyle Moves

**A/N: Yes, I succumbed to public pressure. I finished my Sequel to this supposedly-Two-Shot story. Except, I'm very lazy and can't think of a new title to said Sequel – so, out of consideration for the fact that what I've done instead is much more convenient to both me and to you (no need to hunt for a new title in that long list of fics), I've decided to just **_**extend**_** my original Two-Shot version of **_**Post-Marital Sabotage**_** into a FIVE-SHOT.**

**(Or, actually, a Four-Shot plus Epilogue.)**

**So, here it is – Part III: The Gargoyle Moves. It feels a little angsty at the start, but don't be fooled – it clears up. And Irene makes a cameo appearance. ;)**

**Now, a great big thank-you to my reviewers for Part II (you are simply amazing – I've never received 37 reviews in one day before!): SetsuUzumaki, Dr Black. MI, BrieStarWarsQueen, Mansurzinha, Jiko Hitasura, Alex Remington, Bitter Faerie, kafekafe, Yume, Kyla45, rowen raven, ShadedRogue, PeanutTree, DesperateDreamer, Mcbnotredame7, myoceanblue22, Stick-Em-Up-Punk, roxxihearts, IrishStorm, Positively, ragdolljazz, Piraticaly-Insane, Anneka Neko, lime-kitteh, Koluno1986, AliceDodgson, Allarine, wlk68, Basia Orci, SutaakiHitori, XLVIII, Black Wolther, Smoochy, Jabberhut, JigokuHana, Bright One, mabaroshi16, fight4thislove, follw, blanc-hiver, saph-kira33, theGreyPebble, Lucy'sDaydreams, StarrFirre, and evilgreenmunkii. You guys rock my socks, shoes, shirt, jeans, and every other piece of clothing I currently have on. Thanks so much!!**

**That said, please don't forget to review Part III!**

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III. The Gargoyle Moves

As a doctor, John Watson knew from a matter of instinct whether a patient of his would live or die.

It was not entirely based on diagnosis, symptoms, treatment, complications; rather, by looking at a patient's face, by gauging the amount of iron will in a patient's eyes, it was possible to have some indication of which way the dreaded coin would fall.

With Mary Morstan, Watson had known from the very beginning that she did not have it within her to recover.

In the last few months, she had been completely bedridden. Her tiny frame, pale skin stretched taut over bone, had given her a half-starved appearance, her soft eyes starting out too large from her face. When the coughing fits seized her she had been unable to stand unassisted. Torn between a duty to his other patients and a growing, clouded sense of fear for his wife, Watson had wavered between home and the clinic, unable to focus his full attention on either. Mary – quietly obstinate to the very last moment – had refused to neglect her domestic duties; and up until the night before consumption had finally taken her, she had been the undisputed mistress of the house, and all the servants had continued to report to her.

In her own understated way, Mary Morstan had entered and left Watson's life within the narrow space of two years. Her death had fallen like a heap of feathers – silent, subtle, soft, but momentous.

Like a slight breath of wind, she had seeped through him unnoticed and realigned every part of him.

No, John Watson knew he had never quite loved her; but the sorrow he'd felt when she'd passed away was resounding, was genuine, a bone-deep sadness that didn't leave him for many more years.

0-0-0

The words Sherlock Holmes had wanted to say were, _I'm sorry_. He'd been standing at the door, hand poised to knock, lips ready – but then Watson had opened the door and those two simple words wouldn't let themselves out.

"Come in."

Holmes obliged, silent for perhaps the first time in his life. His sharp eyes missed nothing: the crinkled state of Watson's shirt, the fact that one of his braces had been buttoned on back-to-front. The unmistakeable, cloying scent of old blood. The scuffed nature of Watson's boots. The fact he had plainly not shaved in at least three days.

"Take care of yourself, old boy," Holmes said gently as Watson dropped himself into a chair. "You won't get anywhere by working yourself like this, you know. You should – leave the clinic in Anstruther's capable hands, for a few weeks at least."

"I can't do that, Holmes."

"I'm sure your patients would understand and sympathise with you, in such extraordinary circumstances."

"_Damn_ the patients, _damn_ their sympathy, and _damn_ the extraordinary circumstances!"

Holmes looked on, a little worried despite the fact that he had foreseen such behaviour, as Watson heaved himself up jerkily from the chair.

"I'm not working for their sake, Holmes, I'm working because I _need_ to work. I'm not being unselfish. I'm being quite the opposite, in fact. Indeed, I wish – I wish the bubonic plague would return to London, so I could _bury_ myself in work someplace other than this, and feel perfectly justified in doing so!"

"If you keep this up, Watson, Irene and I will be burying you for another reason entirely before the month is out."

Watson stared at him, then recovered and gave a humourless chuckle. "Ah, of course. I'd forgotten. How is the self-proclaimed reformist, by the way?"

"She is alive."

"Are you planning to marry her?"

Holmes busied himself with straightening his waistcoat. "I make it a point of mine, Watson, not to repeat my mistakes; even more so, old boy, not to repeat _your_ ones."

Knowing full well that Holmes was only baiting him in a roundabout attempt to cheer him up, Watson sighed. In the past, many people had commented on how the two of them seemed always to antagonise each other – but Watson knew, as he knew Holmes also did, that such antagonism was only a surface mask to conceal the heartfelt loyalty each felt to the other. Behind the detective's arrogant smirk was an authentic concern and its palpable presence warmed Watson considerably.

"You are quite right, Holmes. You spend your entire life making so _many_ mistakes that you never get the time to even _try_ to repeat any of them."

The smirk dissolved into a wide smile. "I knew there was a reason why I enjoyed your presence, old boy. I've positively missed you these past few months."

"Holmes, we saw each other every week."

"You saw _me_, perhaps. But I never saw _you_."

"I suppose you are right; I haven't been myself, lately."

"No, you certainly haven't. But no matter, now." Holmes stood, picking imaginary lint off the cuffs of his shirt. "What's happened has happened, my dear fellow. You can't blame yourself forever. It's not your fault she caught consumption, Watson, and don't you forget that."

"I should have – "

"There was nothing you could have done," Holmes cut in firmly. "You gave her the best treatment possible in the circumstances. No doctor could have done better."

"We should have moved to the country last December – the weather was bad for her, I knew that, but I didn't want to leave the practice – "

"She wouldn't have let you leave it, Watson. You and I both know that."

"That speaks volumes of her goodness, and none whatsoever of mine. I was selfish not to move her."

"Watson." Holmes reached out, forced his friend to look at him. "There was nothing you could have done. Certainly, you could have moved her; certainly, you could even have contrived to do so without leaving London, by placing her in her brother's care. But you would not have been able to prevent anything, only postpone it – you know that in your heart, Watson. You are a doctor. You must know, if even I do. She would not have lasted beyond next year."

"Then I have robbed her of a year, Holmes! Is not that bad enough?"

"It is unfortunate, admittedly," Holmes conceded. "But if you are willing to work yourself to death over that, then you are a lesser man than I thought you."

Watson scoffed bitterly.

"I had been under the impression that your opinion of me couldn't get any lower. It certainly can't be any lower than the opinion I now have of myself."

"Watson, you are like the cat whose partner was hit by a buggy and now lurks around main roads in the mistaken belief that all will be atoned for if you are hit in return."

"Then what would you have me do, Holmes? I've lost my _wife_."

"And if you keep working like this, I may lose something much more. If not a – companion, then at least a friend."

Watson turned away, not able to meet the openly imploring look in Holmes' eye. He himself knew, from a purely impersonal perspective, that what his friend had said was undeniably true; it was not his fault that Mary Watson had succumbed to consumption. Thousands did so in London in the span of a day. And consumption was the kind of dreaded disease which showed no symptoms until it was much too late – until no doctor could prescribe anything more substantial than good rest, and good comfort, and hope for the best.

But – knowing as he did that he had not done his best by her, had not given her the love that he knew she deserved – knowing that he had married her, and then regretted that marriage ten times over, and then ten times over and over again –

– knowing all that, and more he could not bear to admit, he could not help but feel he had killed her himself.

0-0-0

Mrs Hudson gave a scandalised gasp, one hand inevitably rising to clap over her mouth.

"Good Lord, Mr Holmes!"

"It's alright, he's alright. Don't fuss, I'm sure the good doctor has no desire to be – whoa, old boy, steady now. No, that's Mrs Hudson. No, Watson, I assure you, it is not Irene, it is my landlady; you should count yourself lucky Miss Adler is not here tonight, or she would be dreadfully offended. Nothing against you, Mrs Hudson, of course. This way, now. Mind the door."

"Where have you taken him? He looks like the Devil!"

"You have managed to slander both Lucifer and Dr Watson in one sentence; an admirable achievement, Mrs Hudson," Holmes managed from somewhere under Watson's left arm. "Now, if you please, I think a hot bath is in order."

At this, Mrs Hudson looked – if it were humanly possible – even more appalled.

"I think Dr Watson is not in a state to take a bath by himself, Mr Holmes!"

"Then you shall help him."

"Me!"

"Well, if not you, then who else? You certainly do not expect _me_ to do it."

"Mr Holmes, I am a respectable woman!"

"And I am a respectable man. It would be quite a predicament, don't you think, if I were to drag Dr Watson to the bathroom and remove his clothes? Why, he might wake up while I was doing so. What if he were to misinterpret the situation? I would be dismissed without a reference, for sure."

"How can you smirk so, Mr Holmes, when Dr Watson – well, when he looks – "

"Oh, I have no doubt he'll pull through, Mrs Hudson."

"And his wife but in the grave a month, too – Mr Holmes, you should be ashamed – "

"I know more about how he feels towards his wife's death than you do, Mrs Hudson," Holmes suddenly said, his voice hard. "There is not a man in England who feels more for her loss than he does. If you would see to the bath now, please."

Stunned by this unexpected show of loyalty, Mrs Hudson retreated, her footsteps shuffling down the corridor. Holmes stuck his head out, making sure he heard the water turn on in the bathroom before manoeuvring Watson onto a couch.

He was rewarded with a pained groan from his companion, and he frowned.

"What's the matter, my dear fellow? Does something hurt?"

"Mmm."

"What's that?"

"Mm – 'ack."

Holmes raised an eyebrow as Watson's right hand moved feebly to gesture underneath his back at the cushion which lay there.

"I don't – "

"M' back!"

"Oh – right." Holmes gave a light laugh as he turned Watson gently onto his side to remove the porcelain figurine which had been wedged under the cushion. "Uncomfortable, was it? Well, why didn't you say so?"

"Hmmph."

Watson's eyes had opened a little, squinting against the light of the lamp Holmes had placed beside the couch. Mrs Hudson had not lit the sitting room fire and the crackling shadows the lamp made on Watson's face dragged his lashes even longer than they naturally were. Holmes snagged a chair from the desk and pulled it closer to his friend.

"The time is ripe, I think, for me to return an old compliment. You look gorgeous, Watson."

"How – how much did – I – drink?"

"Enough to put half of Parliament House to shame, my good man. Here. Drink some of this water."

There was a feeble snort. "Is it – poison – nanny?"

"Not too drunk for witticism, I see." Holmes held out the glass, steadying it as Watson guided it towards his mouth. "Whatever it was you drank was obviously not strong enough. Careful, now. Don't choke."

Watson's slurred voice came around the lip of the glass. "Mmm – not so very drunk – Holmes."

"Evidently."

"You don't – believe me."

"I trust my own eyes, doctor; and right now, they are notifying me of your advanced state of intoxication. Are you up for a bath, Watson? I have had Mrs Hudson prepare one for you, although if you do not wish to take advantage of that, I would be only too glad to do so myself."

"You can – have it."

Watson pushed the empty glass away, sinking back against the couch with a sigh. Holmes watched him for a moment, eyes alert for any more subtle signs of discomfort, before standing to bolt the sitting room door. It was late – at least eleven o'clock, or twelve – and he did not want Mrs Hudson intruding again with a pot of tea or some other excuse to allow her to shoot him her disapproving looks.

"Shall I put you to bed then, Watson?"

"I – am quite comfortable here, thank-you, Holmes."

For a while Sherlock stood beside the door, his hands clasped behind him, just staring at his best friend's face. Skilled as he was at reading the tiniest and most obscure of clues, he knew that even Lestrade (were he present in full Scotland Yard incompetence) would have made no mistake in recognising how much older John Watson looked now than he had two years ago. New lines had formed; old ones had deepened themselves. And the freshness, the crisp zeal that had been one of Watson's main characteristics, had dulled itself, eroded slowly away with the inner turmoil that had lurked beneath the calm facade. Two years of patients, of guilt, of stifled and unvoiced regret – Holmes turned away, something within him smarting and pained, an underused and frequently unobserved conscience finally trying to assert itself.

He could not forget that it had been he himself who had first planted those seeds of regret in his friend.

"Holmes?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, turning back to face the couch. "Yes, Watson? Is something the matter, old boy?"

"May I – recant my yielding the bath to you? I think – I think I should like it to clear my head. I feel awfully faint. A nice hot bath would – do me good."

"I will allow you to recant on one condition."

Watson cracked open an eye, looked at him curiously. "Yes?"

"You allow me to help you take it, doctor. I have no wish to wake up tomorrow morning to find that you have drowned yourself." A halting chuckle broke out from Watson's lips, and Holmes smiled. "Not only would such a situation be exceedingly awkward, but most likely Mrs Hudson would never give me a moment's peace until I had purchased her a new bathtub."

"She certainly is very – superstitious."

"She is a profound affront to all things logical."

"But you must own, Holmes, that she is an admirable landlady."

"Ah, that reminds me." Holmes took out his pipe and a pouch of tobacco. "About your arrangements, old boy – we will have to do something about them without delay. You shall, no doubt, move back to Baker Street?"

"My practice – "

"Yes, yes, the inescapable practice," Holmes interrupted, unconcerned. "It is only a far way from here if you walk, my dear fellow. A good Shrewsbury and Talbot cab would get you there in under half an hour. Factoring in traffic and so forth, and any unforeseen delays, would see you at your practice at most an hour after leaving these rooms."

"Irene – "

"Miss Adler would have no objections to your presence here, I'm sure. Now, as to your current rooms, I understand that your contract there is until September?"

"How did you – "

"How I found out is unimportant. What _is_ important, however, is that I am sure Mrs Turner would be understanding of your need to end aforementioned contract prematurely, due to your – recent grief. She is a reasonable woman."

The sharp blue of Watson's eyes cast down. "You appear to have thought all this out – intricately, Holmes."

"We differ, Watson, in that I never let emotion fetter my better judgement in these things," Holmes countered lightly. "You need time to rest, and you need to spend it with someone who – "

He stopped, noticing that Watson had fallen sound asleep.

" – cares for you," he finished. Those had not been the words he'd intended to say; and indeed, once he'd said them, they'd sounded sentimental and slightly ridiculous to his ears and a part of him had wanted to take them all back. He'd never admitted caring for anyone before – but with John Watson asleep and no-one else there to hear, his ever-calculating, ever-observant mind had allowed him that tiny slip of the mask.

0-0-0

"_No_, Holmes. I will _not_ permit you to do such a thing."

Watson's brows were gathered together ominously, his eyes snapping over the top of a copy of the_ Times_. Sherlock Holmes, for his part, merely took his pipe out of the corner of his mouth and tapped out the spent ashes onto his empty breakfast plate. Watson watched him, distracted by this unsavoury habit of his, the scowling mouth opening automatically to berate him as such before he remembered there was a far more important issue at stake.

He forced himself to look away from the ashy mess. "No, I will not, Holmes, let you – "

"It really wouldn't be any trouble, you know," said Holmes airily, moving the pipe closer to his eyes and staring at it. "The past six months have seen London offer up quite an altar of intriguing and unusual cases. Lestrade has been most perplexed, to my profit. I have not spent most of what I have been paid, and – "

"You have hardly had _any_ cases since I've moved back here, Holmes, and it's been two months! I am quite surprised we've managed to last this long, actually."

"In the past _eight_ months, then. The exact amount of time is but a trivial matter."

"No, Holmes. I simply could not let you undertake such a thing. It would not be fitting."

"I fail to see the problem."

"It would rest on my conscience, Holmes."

"I have always said, my dear Watson, that you rest far too much on that dratted conscience of yours. You would do much better to clear it, once and for all. It clouds your judgement."

This last statement did not quite make sense, but Watson, his mouth a cross and determined line, was used to such ambiguity from Holmes.

He snapped his newspaper crisply shut.

"If you would only let me return to practice, as you have steadfastly _refused_ to do for the past two months, I would be more than able to supply my half of the rent. And besides, Anstruther has notified me more than once of his inability to keep up with the sheer number of patients there. The clinic needs me, Holmes."

"I have no doubt about that."

"Then why do you continue to – "

"Mrs Hudson, this tea is cold." Satisfied with whatever he had been looking for on his pipe, Holmes put it back into his mouth, not bothering to light it. "And Watson, you haven't touched your toast."

Unable to find words enough to express his annoyance, Watson reached for the toast and bit into it viciously.

"Shall I bring up more eggs, Mr Holmes?"

"No, I have had quite enough. Oh, and Mrs Hudson – be good enough to go downstairs and tell Miss Adler she may not come in. She is at the door, and has been standing there for quite some time. No, she has not rung the bell, that is true; but she is nonetheless there, and waiting to be let in, and you shall dutifully tell her that I am not at home."

Watson's irritation ebbed a little at this new piece of information.

"Miss Adler? Irene?"

"Yes, my boy, Irene; unless she has a sister of the same maiden name, of which I confess I know nothing about."

"She has business here?"

"_She_ has business with _me_, that is true. But _I _have no business with _her_ today."

Watson gave his companion a sidelong, assessing glance as Holmes snatched the newspaper from him and pretended to read. After a moment, the doctor reached across the table and yanked his copy of the _Times_ back again.

"And yet you deny you have any sort of feeling for her," he said, shaking it out.

"My, my," said Holmes, suddenly looking quite sly, "Do I detect traces of jealousy in your tone, my dear doctor?"

"Don't be conceited," Watson retorted, although his cheeks were a bit darker than they'd been a few minutes previous. He propped the newspaper up to hide this inconvenient fact, knowing that if he didn't, Holmes would most definitely point it out. "I am merely – there is nothing to laugh about, Holmes! I wish you wouldn't."

"On the contrary, Watson, there is plenty to amuse me at present."

"I assure you, I am not the least bit jealous."

"Of course no – "

"Ah, but _I_ am, Dr Watson."

Irene Adler, resplendent in violet satin, smiled as Watson turned at her voice. She looked on with an air of amused indulgence as the latter stood to kiss her gloved hand. Her brown hair had been swept up fashionably beneath a bonnet, and with her intelligent dark eyes and provoking smile, she was nothing short of ravishing – but Holmes, for whom this visual display was predominantly intended, simply gave her a small nod and returned to his tea, at which she affected a mild offense.

"Why, Sherlock, where are your manners this morning? It is the height of rudeness not to greet a lady when she enters the room – not to mention leaving said lady standing out on the pavement, having first attempted to deceive her into thinking you are not at home."

"Mrs Hudson told you I was in, no doubt?"

"Oh, not her. She told your lie, albeit quite transparently. No – not even the formidable Mrs Hudson can deter an intelligent lady from entering, when she can see quite plainly your back from the window."

"Ah," said Holmes, looking rather annoyed.

"Will you sit, Miss Adler?"

Irene gave Watson a bright smile as he pulled out a chair for her. "Yes, I shall, thank-you. You are a true gentleman. Sherlock, on the other hand – I regret to say, doctor, that he has not improved one iota under my instruction. I can only hope that yours will be more effective."

"I have lived with him for over three years, to no effect, Miss Adler."

"Yes, he is dreadfully wilful, isn't he? What he needs is a tight rein and a curb bit, I'd say. But I'll leave that to your discretion, doctor. I will have to play Pontius Pilate, and rinse my beautiful new gloves of him."

"You are leaving London?"

Watson's initial surprise gave way to quick puzzlement as a defeated look came into Irene Adler's beautiful face. It disappeared quickly, however. Suddenly, she was smiling again.

"Yes, I am going abroad for some time – perhaps to Paris. If anything, my time in London has reaffirmed for me the need a woman has for a good dressmaker – something which England, unfortunately, does not have a ready supply of, I must say."

At this, Sherlock Holmes looked up at her sharply. "To Paris?"

"Why, the gargoyle moves," Irene said in mock astonishment, her pretty brows arching.

It was an indication of Holmes' agitation that he ignored the obvious barb.

"I had thought you would stay for a few months more, at least. The Duchess of Kent has but just sent me a letter – "

"And it talks, too," said Irene, without concern, looking at Watson confidingly. "A little lacking in articulation, and most definitely in manners, but those things take time. I suppose he shows _some_ promise for future social tact."

"I believe the best social tact practicable with Holmes would be never to let him out of the house."

"Quite insightful," Irene laughed. "I dare say, you have the mind of a diplomat, Dr Watson. You would do exceedingly well in politics."

"He has too much of a conscience for politics," Holmes interrupted. His eyes were far from dismissive, however, and he looked as if he would jump up from his chair and start restlessly pacing any moment. "Irene, you cannot leave at such short notice. It would be most irresponsible. And after I have taken such pains to resign myself to working with you, too."

"You make it sound like a chore, Sherlock! I was certain you did not see it that way once."

Watson stared, his hand frozen halfway to his toast. "Working with her? Holmes! So you _have_ been taking on cases in these past few months – why, that's – why didn't you tell me so, Holmes?"

"I could not, Watson. You know precisely why."

"No, I do not! As a matter of fact, I think it is quite conniving to deceive me in such a manner!"

"Ah," said Irene, still smiling, "I see I have blundered myself into the midst of a domestic disagreement. Pray excuse me."

"Irene, the Duchess of Kent – "

" – can wait."

Irene tipped her dark head, as if reconsidering.

"Or she can settle for Dr Watson. I am sure she would find him competent. Though," and she put a gloved hand onto his wrist, holding his blue eyes with her own dark ones; "I would be careful, doctor – you are a little too good-looking for Kent, so mind that Sherlock does not become jealous."

Holmes opened his mouth to provide a suitable retort but before the words had managed to form on his tongue, Irene Adler had already swept herself out of the room. Her light laugh rang on down the staircase as both men stared at the empty doorway, Watson flushed with anger at Holmes' betrayal, and Holmes with a look of infinite disappointment.

Watson turned indignantly to look at his friend.

"What is the meaning of this concealment, Holmes?"

As was customary whenever Holmes wanted to avoid a confrontation, he reached for his pipe. "I know not of what you refer to."

"You deliberately concealed from me the fact that you had taken on a case!"

"I do not believe, Watson, that it can be called _concealment_ – such a word implies a predetermined desire to prevent a piece of information from reaching someone, and I had no such desire, nor did I act as such."

"You purposefully did not tell me about the cases, Holmes! That amounts to blatant concealment on your part!"

"And you did not ask me about them, old boy. Does that amount to negligence on _yours_?"

"How can I be expected to ask about them, Holmes, when you gave me no indication at all that you were still working?"

"I gave you plenty of indications. I have, for example, not been in the house on several occasions these past months, during the day. On such occasions, I frequently did not return until very late in the evening, or very early the next day; and upon my return, I frequently sustained a few injuries which you, my dear doctor, tended to."

"I thought they were boxing wounds."

"Indeed." Holmes leaned back precariously on his chair, levering it onto two legs. "But they were evidently _not_ boxing wounds. Their placements, their severity; and the state of my clothes. Never any scent of alcohol. And yet, you know very well I always drink on the occasions when I go out and box."

"I'd thought – I'd thought you'd stopped drinking, or – "

"As I said before, old boy – _negligence_. That, or a lack of elementary observation. In fact, I recall that but a week ago I returned with the distinctive scent of formaldehyde about me – but, even then, you did not realise where I'd been. I am not blaming you, Watson, be assured of that; I am simply presenting my defence against your accusations, you see."

"You still could have told me," Watson mumbled stubbornly. "I don't know why you didn't."

"I would have thought it obvious, doctor."

"And I would _not_ have thought it so."

Holmes sighed, settling his chair back onto four legs.

"You would have wished to accompany me. You would have wished to participate – as you ably did several years ago, before Miss Morstan arrived – to help solve the case, and so on. You are too curious, Watson, to pass up an opportunity to unravel something unknown to you. I have had ample first-hand experience of that. No, Watson; you would have thrown yourself into each case in much the same reckless way you keep attempting to throw yourself back into your practice, and I could not allow you to do so. You are too emotionally... delicate, at present. You would have endangered my life, as well as your own, had I allowed you to solve any cases with me."

Annoyed as he always was whenever Holmes' arguments made sense, Watson reached for his teacup and lifted it up to his lips.

"So you chose the very trustworthy Irene Adler as your partner instead."

"She can be a little slippery at times," Holmes confessed, "but she has the good sense to recognise where the true money lies. It did not take much persuasion to win her onto the side of the law."

Remembering that painful look of defeat in her face, Watson suddenly wondered to himself if Irene Adler had not had another reason for agreeing to work with Holmes. He was about to say as such, before he thought better of it. By nature, he was not one for character analysis – and the emotions of women had always puzzled him.

Best to stick to things he understood.

"I would have thought there was more money to be made on the _other_ side," he said.

"Yes, there is," agreed Holmes amiably. "But you can't flaunt that kind of money. If anything, Miss Adler enjoys flaunting her wealth. It's in her nature – and she does it so charmingly."

"You _are_ taken with her."

"I do own she holds some fascination for me, yes."

Watson's mouth twisted into a frown despite himself. "Hmmph."

"But don't fret, my dear Watson. The charming Miss Adler is headed for Paris – where she will use said charms to cheat some French General out of his inheritance, no doubt. She has never been able to resist temptation for long. And I am left without a partner once more; a crippling situation for me, as you are no doubt already aware."

There was a pause. Holmes didn't attempt to fill it, content to continue sucking idly on his black clay pipe. Watson watched him out of the corner of his eye, waiting for him to make the offer.

He didn't.

Watson cleared his throat. "I think I – "

"Certainly."

"You don't think I'm – "

"No."

"But you just – "

"The circumstances have altered since I last employed Miss Adler."

He couldn't help it – at the prospect of working with Holmes once again, Watson felt his spirits buoy up and a smile diffuse itself insuppressibly across his face. He laughed, slapping the folded _Times_ across his leg. A glance at Holmes told him the detective felt the same, although the latter kept such emotion under a tighter restraint.

"Besides," Holmes added, as if feeling the need to justify himself, "you need distraction. I would much prefer such an arrangement over your return to the clinic – because at least, in these circumstances, I can keep an eye on you."

"Oh, blast the clinic," said Watson, heartily. "Anstruther can handle it for another month or two."

0-0-0

It was only that evening, as Watson was preparing for bed, that he noticed a tiny slip of paper that had been tucked surreptitiously into the left cuff of his sleeve.

He stared at it, a little puzzled. There were only six words. The writing was neat, and in a lady's hand.

_Take care of him for me._

* * *

**A/N: Like? Don't like? I tried (once again) to balance humour with sobriety, and I'm not sure if it worked out or not. But anyway, hoped you enjoyed Irene! And please review - the only reason why I updated this fic so quickly is because of the HUGE number of reviews received by Part II. Likewise, how ****soon I put up Part IV: In the Name of Science will depend on whether you guys review or not. :P :gives Irene-Adler-esque wink:**


	4. Part IV: In the Name of Science

**A/N: Fast update, because of you fab reviewers. ;)**

**Ah, you guys have absolutely no idea how much fun I had, writing this Part IV. I think I was giggling the entire time I wrote it. Hope you guys end up enjoying it as much as I did!**

**Thanks to the loverrrrly reviews from Always a Bookworm, kk, Chocolate Wolf, Mcbnotredame7, Mia, roxxihearts, PeanutTree, Merthurtilidie, Dorryen Golde, charlie-becks, Chromde, BrieStarWarsQueen, Gaming Girl, ValykirieRevolution, Alex Remington, lucyrgic acid, UbiquitousPhantom, Positively, mabaroshi16, oi!, StarrFirre, Stick-Em-Up-Punk, Dr Black. MI, SetsuUzumaki, Smoochy, Black Wolther, Allarine, Jabberhut, Hulabaloo, theGreyPebble, Shella, passionfornight, saph-kira33, rowen raven, Kyla45, itSoaL, Lucy'sDaydreams, NeverFree, myoceanblue22, Elly Black, Basia Orci, JigokuHana, Faye Violette, Koluno1986, SutaakiHitori, and Anneka Neko!**

**Please don't forget to review this one! ;)**

* * *

IV. In the Name of Science

Watson whole-heartedly believed, as he was wont to do, that it was all Holmes' fault from the very beginning.

Of course, this was not entirely fair on the detective; he was not conscious at the time, so by necessity he had no manner of defending himself. Usually, in such situations, Holmes kept up a snappy stream of excuses – misleading arguments, paradoxes, irrelevant (and more often than not, utterly dubious) statistics verbally polished to sound authoritative; even bare-faced denial, if all of the above did not achieve their desired effect of shifting the blame onto somebody else. Many a triumphant occasion of Justice had been marred by the petty squabbling of her two leading champions.

Many more had been marred single-handedly by Holmes.

The night in question had started innocently enough. They had solved the perplexing case of the Kensington family of East Sussex, and had returned to Baker Street by train and hansom cab; they had supped, both in excellent spirits, in the usual sitting room. Mrs Hudson had lit the sitting room fire. Holmes had taken out his violin, as per usual, and had scraped a few of the usual chords; and then, at around about eleven o'clock, as if struck by a sudden overwhelming whim, he'd laid the instrument down on a nearby table.

"I say, Watson," he'd announced, "I do believe I've stumbled upon a very interesting theory."

In too much of a good mood to recognise this familiar precursor to trouble, Watson had laughed indulgently.

"How so? You must tell me all about it, Holmes."

The detective had picked up his violin bow with his right hand, absently tapping it against the palm of his left. "You observe, Watson – this crystal decanter I have here. You observe the amber liquid within."

"The scotch, you mean."

"Er, yes. The scotch. Now, if you do recall – we both took a draught of this earlier, immediately prior to supper. You took one glass, and I took two."

"Quite correct."

Holmes bent at the waist, peering closely at the bottom of the decanter with a look of scholarly interest on his face. "I may now have reason to believe that this liquid is not scotch."

Watson jerked out of his good humour in an instant. "What?"

"I stated, old boy, that I may now have reason – "

"Good heavens, Holmes! If it's not scotch, then what is it?"

"I don't know," Holmes answered pleasantly, straightening again. "I have my theories, however."

Watson exploded from his chair, striding over to the offending decanter and pulling the stopper off to sniff at its contents. He frowned. "Are you sure it's not scotch? It smells – "

"You misunderstood me. What I meant to say was, I do not believe that it is _purely_ scotch." Holmes gave the decanter one last curious glance before moving nonchalantly back to his violin. "Oh well. Now, what would you have me play, Watson? A Scottish air? I know you enjoy those especially."

"Holmes."

"A French one then, perhaps?"

"_Holmes!_" Watson set the decanter down heavily, his eyes thunderous. "_What_, exactly, is in this decanter?"

Holmes picked up the violin, trilling a few notes before lowering it from his shoulder again. He did not seem very worried, which Watson hoped was a good sign – however, he had lived with the detective long enough to know never to make assumptions about that sort of thing. Watson had no doubt Holmes would lose a limb with good grace if it afforded him some particular insight on the process of amputation, or blood clotting, or anaesthesia, or all three.

"To solve that little mystery, Watson," Holmes said now, tipping his head to the side, "you may lift the decanter to eye-level. A little higher, Watson. Yes. Good. Now, direct your gaze towards the bottom of the decanter – do you see those small colourless crystals clustered near the bottom?"

"Yes."

"Well, there you are. Now, back to the topic of French airs – "

"What are they?" Watson interrupted, still staring at the little clumps in the liquid.

Holmes blinked. "Why, Watson! What a very base question! You should be ashamed of yourself. I would have thought that after living with me for such a long time, your knowledge would have improved enough by now for you to know what a French air is."

"No, Holmes, not the blasted _air_, what are these _crystals_?"

Holmes actually had the audacity to look annoyed.

"Sometimes, Watson, I think you are exceedingly morbid. Those crystals, if you really must know, are most probably strychnine crystals isolated from a tree native to India, Sri Lanka, and Indonesia – the nux vomica, of the family Loganiaceae, to be precise. An associate of mine from the Coromandel Coast sent them to me to sample. Naturally, I had been curious as to the physical and chemical properties – "

"That is all very well," Watson said, the volume of his voice rising with his exasperation, "but I fail to see why it was necessary for you to _place them within the decanter of scotch!_"

"Dissolution, old boy. I had been attempting to determine the solubility of strychnine crystals in ethanol – "

"You do know, I hope, Holmes, that strychnine is a well-known _convulsant._"

"Of course," said Holmes, looking slightly offended.

"And that it is possible for someone to die of _strychnine poisoning_."

"Ah, but you need not bother yourself with that fact. If any poisoning should occur, it would most likely occur to _me_, since I took a higher dose than you."

"Oh, I am not bothered in the least," Watson said cuttingly. "After all, should you suddenly keel over, I would have the great consolation of knowing that your death was all in the name of Science."

"Precisely, good fellow."

Watson shook the decanter gingerly as Holmes began to play again, noting how the crystals did not dissolve. A little placated and hopeful that not much had dissolved into the scotch to begin with, he said, "You will let me take your pulse however, Holmes."

"There is absolutely no need for you to do so."

"I insist, Holmes! I will _not_ have you fight me in this. Or, if you persist in fighting me, I shall have no choice but to summon up Mrs Hudson."

At the thought of all the gasps and flustering and fuss that would necessarily follow such a drastic course of action, Holmes' grey eyes widened. "Oh, Watson. You _wouldn't_."

"On the contrary, Holmes, I wouldn't hesitate. Now put that violin down and let me take your pulse."

Holmes obeyed sullenly, shooting Watson a dark look all the while. The latter placed his well-trained fingers on the inside of Holmes' wrist, looking vaguely towards the opposite wall as he dutifully concentrated on the count. Once he had satisfied himself that Holmes was not about to suddenly expire on the sitting room floor (indeed, all the detective had was a very slight elevation of heart rate), he stood up from the settee on which they had been seated and rolled down Holmes' sleeve for him.

"You have an increased heart rate," he told the still-sulking detective. "But it is not very serious."

"Of course not," Holmes scoffed, jerking his wrist back. "I was already aware of such a fact."

"Well, excuse my concern, Holmes. I don't know why I was worried about your consumption of an ingredient commonly used to rid buildings of vermin."

"The dosage I inadvertently took was not nearly as high as that needed for such a dramatic effect, doctor. Indeed, I believe I can safely predict that the only outcome of this unexpected experiment will be a sleepless night for both of us, due of course to strychnine's stimulant effects."

"Yes, _indeed_," Watson echoed dryly. He moved to the decanter and, with some regret at the wastage of such fine Scotch whiskey, tipped its contents into the fireplace. "I don't think I would've trusted you enough to _let_ myself fall asleep anyway, after tonight. You might have neglected to tell me that you'd poisoned my sheets, or lit a fire under my bed, or set a carnivorous exotic lizard free in my room."

Holmes waved the violin bow at him jauntily.

"If it is any consolation, doctor, I will give you my word that if I have any of those aforementioned inclinations in future, I will most certainly take pains to notify you in advance."

"You are most generous."

"That I am, old boy; that I am."

Watson sighed at his friend's complete disregard for personal wellbeing, sinking heavily into the armchair nearest the fire.

"A sleepless night, did you say, Holmes?"

"Unfortunately, yes. You can attempt to sleep, of course, but you will undoubtedly find you efforts utterly fruitless."

"How are you planning to pass the time?"

"I have the solace of my violin and several books which I have been of a mind lately to take the time to peruse. You have – rather unwisely, might I add – thrown out my strychnine crystals; so I can no longer finish up that experiment, at any rate."

"And a very good thing, too."

"I'm afraid I cannot agree with you. It would have been a most intriguing study of poisons, Watson."

Watson said nothing as Holmes launched into a sad French air, most probably a reflection of this lost opportunity. The clock struck twelve halfway through the piece; Watson shoved his hands into his waistcoat pockets, staring with sudden melancholy at the faded hearth. Holmes had played this same air for Mary, once – before the marriage, upon the late lady's steady insistence. The soft notes only served to remind him of her and he found himself thinking about those dreadful last months once again, the way her wrists had seemed to him paper-thin, breakable.

The violin choked off suddenly, and he looked up in surprise. Holmes was eyeing him sharply, the bow limp in his hand.

"I'm sorry, old boy," he said quietly. "I forgot. So very careless of me."

"It's alright."

"Shall I play something else? No – don't answer that. I'm sorry again, Watson. I really am."

"It doesn't matter. It's been almost a year since she – I should not be so easily affected, Holmes, so it is no fault of yours. Pray continue playing, if you wish."

Holmes put the violin aside, the colour of his eyes deepening as he sought to analyse the look on his friend's face. "Shall I fetch you a drink, old boy? One without strychnine crystals, of course."

"Do we still have some of that brandy?"

"Yes, I think we do."

Holmes' eyes didn't leave him as the drink was poured, though they softened as the minutes wore on. Watson swirled the liquor gently before downing it. The fierce warmth of the brandy settled into his stomach and Holmes took the glass from him wordlessly, filled it up once again.

"Do you think about her often, Watson?"

"Less than I used to, now." Watson tried to shrug, but his shoulders couldn't quite pull it off. "Mostly, I wake up in the mornings with my mind clean as a slate; and there are days when I don't think of her at all. But then sometimes I'll go out, and there will be a young lady at Harrods, or standing at the front of some shop, in a grey muslin dress and I – I'll think of her. I try not to, Holmes – is that the right thing to do? Is it right for me not to want to think about her?"

"I can't say," said Holmes, with some stiffness, avoiding Watson's eyes. "I have not ever felt that way before."

"Not once?"

The detective hesitated, remembering the same strange, unreasonable hope he'd experienced not so very long ago, every time he'd gone out and seen a grey-suited man leaning on a gold-tipped cane.

"I – no, not once," he said. "You are being morbid again, my dear fellow. Here, have another drink."

"Do you miss Irene?"

"Miss Adler? I suppose I do, a little."

Watson took the glass from him. "I still remember what you said to me all those years ago, you know, Holmes. When you said that we had a natural – chemistry, was it? Yes, chemistry. Did you ever feel that way with Irene?"

"No."

"I wonder if you still feel that way towards _me_."

A few moments of silence passed, Watson's words hanging unresolved in the air. From the fireplace, little embers spat and fell onto the carpet, burning themselves out feebly.

Watson sighed when it became apparent Holmes was not going to say anything.

"Never mind," he said. "It doesn't matter. I don't know why I felt the need to bring that up again – it was too long ago, I suppose. I only thought, Holmes, to – "

The kiss, when it came, knocked the breath from his lungs.

And then, almost immediately, Holmes had pulled away again, turning away quickly as if to avoid Watson's face. Watson watched, still not able to comprehend what had happened, as the detective took several long strides to the door; and then the dim light of the corridor had spilled in just a crack, paving a golden splinter that pierced the floor underneath Holmes' shoes, a sharp stab as if to impale him. So vulnerable. Holmes was half out the door when Watson found his voice.

"Holmes!"

It didn't stop him – Watson saw him hesitate, once, perhaps for the better half of a second; but then he was gone, his sharp footsteps moving down the hall. A moment later, there was the sound of a closing door.

0-0-0

Holmes was asleep.

This fact – discovered the following morning by Watson, of course – did nothing whatsoever to improve the doctor's sour mood. The night before, after Holmes had speedily departed the room, Watson had sat in the armchair with his thoughts all a-muddle, doubts and fears and hope and confusion pecking themselves busily away at each other until his head had felt like a bloated balloon. He hadn't been worried, of course, because – no, that was a lie because damnit, he _had_ been worried. He'd been worried about Holmes, he'd been worried all night, worried because it had been his fault after all, he'd brought up that damned topic of conversation – he'd launched into it out of a sense of self-pity, out of a desperation to wipe Mary Morstan's death from his –

"Oh, _damn_," he said vehemently to himself, frowning down at Holmes' sleeping form. "Damn, damn, _damn_."

Which was just the moment Holmes decided to crack open an eye, peering up at Watson benevolently.

"I say, Watson, it is by all accounts very early. Shouldn't you be in bed, old boy?"

"I think," said Watson, ignoring Holmes' question and keeping his voice heavy with sarcasm, "I recall you mentioning sometime last night that strychnine was supposed to be a _stimulant_."

Holmes blinked. "Why, it is, doctor."

"And I think I also recall you stating, quite clearly, that as such, neither of us would get a wink of sleep the whole duration of last night."

"That was the natural conclusion, given the circumstances."

Watson leaned forward, prodding Holmes' chest with an accusing finger. "Then _why_, in the Devil's name, are you _asleep_?"

"I am not asleep, old boy. I am talking to you."

Watson threw up his hands and tried again. "Very well, Holmes, if you wish to play that game with me. Why then, in the Devil's name, _were_ you asleep?"

"I'm not sure," said Holmes. Rather inadequately.

Watson poked him again. "It wasn't strychnine, _was_ it?"

"Well, old boy, I'm not sure if you remember, but I did tell you that I had a _number_ of theories as to what was in the – "

"What _was_ it, then?"

" – decanter," Holmes finished, then gave a huff. "I'd say, if it was not strychnine, then it was scopolamine. But really, doctor, I do not see the issue. As long as you are not dead, which you most certainly are not, and as long as _I_ am not dead, which _I_ most certainly am not, then what should it matter – "

"Because I said something I would not normally have said!" Watson cried, with some feeling. The unexpected burst of passion succeeded, rather unpredictably, in shutting Holmes up. "Because _you_ did something _you_ would normally not have _done_! Don't you _see_, Holmes? Your scopolamine has changed everything between us, and now I no longer comprehend what you are to me, and I to you! And furthermore, not only have you managed to achieve all the aforementioned with your chemical blunder, but you have _also_ succeeded in keeping me up the _entire_ course of the night worrying about your _damned_ well-being and your _damned_ mental state, when in actuality, you had been _asleep_ the whole time, rendering all of my _damned_ worrying completely and utterly _redundant_!"

Silence. And then, with a muffled whistle, Mrs Hudson's kettle went off downstairs.

Finally, Holmes laughed. "My dear Watson, you can really be quite absurd. If you like, you can indeed blame everything on the drug in question. Scopolamine is well-known to lower inhibition, you know."

"Was that why – "

" – I kissed you?" Holmes settled back on the bed, closing his eyes again as if he wanted to go back to sleep. "Perhaps."

"Holmes."

"Yes, Watson."

"I need to know – "

"Oh, for God's sake," Holmes broke in then; before reaching up, grabbing a neat handful of Watson's shirt, and yanking him down to meet his lips.

0-0-0

The first time this had happened, Dr John Watson had been too paralysed by the moment to really respond.

This second time, of course, was no less shocking – one moment he'd been upright, giving a complacent Holmes the most searing glare he could possibly muster; the next moment he was not-so-upright, giving a not-so-complacent Holmes a not-so-searing glare, which in principle was necessary, but was practically irrelevant, as said Holmes had his grey eyes firmly shut and so couldn't see said glare anyway.

This second time, it was Dr John Watson who broke the kiss and pulled away.

This second time, it was Dr John Watson – hands trembling, lips trembling, his blue eyes wide; half-indignant, half-incredulous, half-breathless, half-glad; half-distracted by Holmes' furtive half-smile that it took him half a minute at least to find that all the half-emotions he felt added up to quite a bit more than one whole.

(And it only took another half-second to know that he didn't give a half-Goddamn.)

Mary Watson – her mouth had been pliable. Holmes yanked him down again, almost impatiently. Mary – Mary had been – soft, very simple, her kisses had felt like whispers, had felt like light fingers brushing over his skin. Translucent. As if he could see his own way through each one. Holmes kissed him like a freight train, like the sound of a gunshot, like buttons coming undone all the way up his waistcoat and him not caring. Not really. Not really – not at all. Holmes kissed him like the London rain, pelting down on everything, wearing everything out. Unstoppable. Opaque. Inevitable.

And then morality slammed itself brutally back, and Watson found himself struggling to pull away.

"No," he said, and he put a hand on Holmes' chest. "No, Holmes. I – I don't know what I'm doing."

The detective merely tilted his head, provokingly, and arched his twin eyebrows. "You are, I believe, kissing me, Watson."

"Am I? Strangely enough, I hadn't noticed that, Holmes."

"Have I ever told you that I adore you when you're being obtuse?"

Watson opened his mouth to argue the point when Holmes shifted his grasp to the front of his belt, jerking him sideways with the sole purpose in mind to make him lose his already-precarious balance.

Holmes succeeded. Impeccably. Watson fell onto the bed.

"That's better," said Holmes, sounding satisfied.

Watson, on the other hand, did not feel so secure. Sherlock Holmes had many personal attributes – such as a blatant disregard for others' personal space and a steadfast refusal to wear his own clothes – but the possession of an upright conscience was not one of them. Sherlock Holmes felt the Roman-Catholic Church a hoax, and a waste of perfectly good high-grade marble. Sherlock Holmes – content to tread the line of the Law, nonetheless treaded it very fine, and only did so not out of a sense of duty but out of the understanding that Scotland Yard was unimaginative. As a criminal, with Inspector Lestrade as an opponent, Holmes knew he'd get away with absolutely anything; and there was little, if any, intellectual stimulation in _that_.

But John Watson – John Watson was Catholic. And although he could not deny that he felt attracted to Holmes, and had admitted as such in previous situations, the fact remained that Holmes was undeniably –

– _male._

Admission of attraction was permissible; indeed a kiss (if it went no further) was permissible, also. But what Holmes had in mind; what was there in his eyes – the result of having waited half a decade or so – was frightening, was alien, in its intensity.

"No, Holmes," Watson said, suddenly very confused, "I – I must have time to think. I had not meant for this to happen. I – "

"The key to superior intellect, my dear Watson, is not to know when to think – but to know when one needs to _stop_ thinking."

Watson held out a hand as if to fend him off. "You've decided to twist facts to suit arguments, once again. I distinctly recall you using that statement in a previous dispute, albeit the other way around."

"I never twist facts. I merely – embellish them, Watson; but only, of course, when I'm arguing with you."

"I cannot." Watson caught Holmes' wrist as it moved towards his shirt, gripping it tightly in his hand. "I cannot. There is a line, Holmes, which once crossed leads to eternal damnation – oh, don't laugh, Holmes, I'm being serious – "

He broke off in surprise as there was a loud clunk, his belt falling heavily onto the floor.

"Holmes!"

"You did not restrain my right hand, Watson, although you have done so with my left. It is no fault of mine. It was your own oversight, you know."

"_Holmes_, you must – "

"Is everything alright up there, Mr Holmes?"

The struggling on Holmes' bed ceased immediately, both men instantly snapping their eyes to the door. The sound of Mrs Hudson's footsteps, making their ponderous way up the stairs, could be clearly heard. Watson drew a sharp breath. Discovery – his waistcoat open, his belt on the floor – not to mention the fact that he was on top of Holmes – would be considered indecent by anyone's standard, and Mrs Hudson's standard was higher than most.

His gaze flicked back to Holmes, who – to Watson's astonishment – had a scheming little smile on the edge of his mouth.

His eyes narrowed. That smile, he knew, foretold trouble.

"Mr Holmes?"

"I hope you locked the door," Watson hissed.

"Of course not. If I had, _you_ would never have been able to enter. Did you lock it behind you as you came in?"

"I don't recall," said Watson, desperately trying to.

"Mr Holmes! Are you awake yet, sir?"

"Mrs Hudson," said Sherlock Holmes to the door, "that is a preposterous question. Of course I'm awake. It is barely ten-thirty, and you have woken me up."

Watson jumped as warm fingers suddenly brushed his stomach, and he jerked back from the touch with a heated glare at Holmes. The sharp, abrupt movement jarred the steel bed and the edge of its frame collided with the bedroom wall.

"Good Lord, Mr Holmes! What was that noise?"

"Stop fidgeting," Holmes whispered, sounding amused.

"And _you_ stop – "

"Mr Holmes – is something the matter? There have been – rather disturbing sounds from your room, and I was concerned, because Dr Watson is not within _his_ room. I knocked and knocked, but there was no reply."

Watson froze at his name, a fact which Holmes dutifully took advantage of by pulling his wrist out of the doctor's grasp. Before Watson was able to work out what had happened, Holmes was already at work on his many shirt buttons, making a neat part in the material over his chest.

"_Stop_ that!" Watson kept his voice low, but didn't dare to yank himself away. "Holmes, _stop_ it – "

"That is most peculiar," Holmes said, not pausing. "He is not in his room, you say, Mrs Hudson? Very peculiar, indeed. Have you checked the sitting room?"

"_Holmes_, that is my _shirt_ – "

"Yes, but he is not there, either!"

"Perhaps a walk, then? Dr Watson is fond of walks," followed by a soft: "Watson, old boy, you are making this _most_ difficult. Do stop squirming."

"Send her away," was Watson's hissed reply. "Send her out, Holmes, or I'll – "

"I think not. Mrs Hudson is being most useful, for perhaps the very first time in her life. I would hate to prematurely cheat her out of such an achievement."

"But he has left his cane and his hat behind, Mr Holmes, and he did not take breakfast!" There was a loud shuffle from outside, and Mrs Hudson's voice suddenly became embarrassed. "To be candid, Mr Holmes, I thought – I thought that, perhaps, he was in there with you."

"In where with me?"

"In – in your room."

"Well, if he is, he is not being very co-operative." Watson bristled at the deliberate double meaning, goaded further by the evident amusement on Holmes' face. "By which I mean, of course, that he has yet to make his presence known to me. Mrs Hudson, I do believe you are overcomplicating this matter. I'm sure Dr Watson has a very good reason for being wherever he currently is."

"But Mr Holmes – "

"Now if you please, I would like to return to sleep. I was kept up last night by various... endeavours, Mrs Hudson, and you have disturbed me at least two hours earlier than I would have preferred."

"But sir – "

"Dr Watson, I am sure, will return soon enough."

Mrs Hudson hesitated, obviously still unsure. "Shall I prepare breakfast for him, then? Or move straight on to lunch?"

"You may do both, or neither, as far as I am concerned, provided you do not disturb me for the remainder of the morning."

Watson held his breath as Mrs Hudson finally gave up, her confused-sounding footsteps tapping back down the hall. There was a brief silence, presumably as she turned back at the top of the stairs; but then they dutifully sounded on down the wooden staircase, finally petering away as she moved around downstairs.

Watson immediately tried to lever himself up.

"Oh, I wouldn't do that, old boy," Holmes said cheerfully in response, clapping a hand onto his shoulder. "You can't leave right now."

"Yes, Holmes, I can, and I will. This – situation – we are in is most indecent, and I – "

" – will only make it more indecent, if you were to go downstairs now."

Watson paused, scowling. "What on earth do you mean?"

"You would have to face the dear Mrs Hudson, if you were to do so, Watson. She would naturally conclude that you had indeed been within my room; that I had lied, when I'd stated that I was alone. You understand what I'm trying to imply, doctor."

"I – "

"Your best chance would be to wait the whole hour and a quarter, until Mrs Hudson goes out on her errands at twelve. Then you could appear downstairs in whatever manner you liked, stating that you'd returned to the house while she had been out – with an excuse of some sort for your absence, of course."

"Very well-played, Holmes," said Watson bitterly. "You have trapped me within your bedroom for at least an hour."

"Quite true."

"With no manner of raising my voice with you, or indeed making any indication that I am actually here."

"Of course."

"I always said, Holmes, that you had no moral scruples whatsoever when it came to exploiting others for your own personal ends."

"Naturally."

Watson sighed, exasperated, and suddenly tired of it all. Sherlock Holmes was so very, very difficult to handle. He was like a thoroughbred that, at times, was perfectly docile but could, without warning, buck you into a lake. There was no real way of curing this problem – and, indeed, all previous effort had undeniably failed. If anything, they had rather managed to make everything worse.

"Don't look so put out, Watson," Holmes said with a smile. "If I've exploited you, then that's a perfectly flawless excuse. Eternal damnation would then, logically, fall only on me."

"I'm not sure that's the correct way of looking at it, Holmes."

"It's the _rational_ way of looking at it. The only _sensible_ way. It's the only way that stands up to analysis, and you, my dear fellow, cannot deny that."

Watson was silent, resisting the nagging urge to smile at such a characteristic refusal by Holmes to accept that something could not be ruled by reason. Holmes was Holmes; and Holmes, he knew, would _always_ be Holmes. Annoying, pedantic, manipulative, stubborn, underhanded, immature, unrelenting, and shameless.

Struck suddenly by a surge of affection for him, Watson leaned down and planted a kiss on the waiting mouth. Sherlock Holmes, who had seen the kiss a long time coming, only managed a soft, muffled laugh in response.

0-0-0

Mrs Hudson was in the middle of making more tea when there came a loud thump from somewhere upstairs.

She paused, kettle still there in one hand, her ears strained. There it was: a thump, yet again. She frowned, looking up at the white-washed ceiling as the thumps became rhythmic and grew quickly in volume, as if someone were trying to hammer their way through the floor.

A minute passed. Perhaps it might have even been two. Mrs Hudson put the kettle down on the bench, getting ready to mount her indignant way upstairs.

Then all of a sudden the rhythmic thumping stopped, and all was blissfully silent again.

Mrs Hudson shook her white, oblivious head in disapproval of such an uncouth level of noise.

"Mr Holmes and his experiments again, no doubt," she said to herself as she picked up the kettle once more.

* * *

**A/N: Good old Mrs Hudson. She is, I believe, invaluable... I have tried to make the slow progression between Holmes and Watson into the physical as subtle and as gentle as I can – which is why I gave them at least half a year, from Mary's death, to reach this point. I didn't want to rush them; I didn't think they'd be the type to rush. (Well, not really. Holmes might. Watson wouldn't.) Anyway – I hope it was, once again, realistic; and that you and I and Holmes and Watson all had fun along the way.**

**(Speaking of which - _damn_ is Watson's conscience a hard hurdle to get over! I swear I wrote that sitting room/bedroom scene transition twenty times, unsatisfied with the way each turned out before I finally got the current version. Gah. Damn you and your morals, John Watson. :shakes proverbial fist:)**

**There is an Epilogue coming – a cute bit of fluff. I would recommend reading it, because in my opinion the story does not feel **_**entirely**_** finished without it. So stay tuned! It will be put out soon.**

**Please don't forget to review, my dears! I am forever indebted to those who do.**

**PS. Some random question - what is the difference between bromance and slash? Are they the same thing? I've always been confused on that front...**


	5. Part V: Epilogue

**A/N: The final Part. Short, but hopefully sweet. **

**Thanks to Ayurveda, bohemian-rhapsodi, splotchi-chan, Positively, roxxihearts, raecat, ValykirieRevolution, pbk, PeanutTree, Lucy'sDaydreams, alphabeticalescape, Chromde, Athena Nikephoros, Merthurtilidie, saph-kira33, Black Wolther, BrieStarWarsQueen, zunmo, Always a Bookworm, tofu-rox, mabaroshi16, graveyardgirl15, passionfornight, Stick-Em-Up-Punk, theGreyPebble, Jabberhut, Muffin Reaper, Chocolate Wolf, rowen raven, Robin Autumn, The., Basia Orci, Kyla45, UbiquitousPhantom, roflmort, Obiness, Mcbnotredame7, Anneka Neko, Koluno1986, and losethemask!**

**Please don't forget to review!**

* * *

V. Epilogue

Indeed, in the months that followed afterward, Watson found that there was not very much in the way of those incidents that he could remember.

He could not, for instance, remember the way each incident of theirs invariably began. Could not remember the way, each night after supper, he and Holmes would sit in chairs by the sitting room fire, he with his newspaper or book or neither and Holmes with his pipe or violin or both. Could not remember the way, at precisely a quarter to twelve, Holmes would get up – nonchalantly, as if he had no other intention – and say, "Well, I'd best be off then, old boy," pour himself some Scotch whiskey, then amble to bed.

And John Watson did not, furthermore, remember how he would sit in his chair after Holmes had gone on, and turn the page of his newspaper or book or neither as if truly unmindful of how Holmes had brushed along his shoulder, just barely, on his walk to the door. Did not remember how his eyes would dart to the clock – ten to twelve, and then five, and then four, and then three – and how Mrs Hudson would come up at precisely twelve midnight to announce that she would be going to bed.

Could not remember his own consistent reply – "Yes, of course, Mrs Hudson. Have a good night."

"You're staying up, Dr Watson?"

"Only just for a while."

Could not remember how he'd wait another ten minutes more before getting up out of the sitting room chair, leaving whatever he'd been pretending to read for the last three or four hours on the nearest low table, moving then to the door. Standing there, for a moment. The walk to Holmes' room.

Could not remember the way Holmes didn't spare him a glance as he let him in, wordless, when he knocked on the door.

And Watson knew, certainly, that he did not remember all the things that sometimes (only sometimes) came after – the buttons undoing, belts snapping, braces unclasping themselves; Sherlock Holmes plucking out his tie-pin with an amused look on his face, then a smile, then mouth opening to say something pointless and Watson kissing him – hard – just to convince him to stop. Then the waistcoat catching against his own shoulders and Holmes giving him a look before helping him out. No, John Watson did not remember anything at all; not Holmes' fingers, gripping his arms before sliding their way up, then into his hair, then down again to rest on his hips, then back up with an impatient sound as Watson struggled with his cravat ("Really, Watson, you are quite dismally hopeless"). The taste of tobacco in Sherlock Holmes' mouth. Then the warm tumble, although sometimes it became a rough shove, to the bed – the frame screeching and slamming the wall – Holmes saying, "We really must do something about that, you know"; and Watson saying, "No, you are _not_ stealing my bed again, Holmes." The sound of light rain from the open window. The sound of a carriage, perhaps, or a horse. The sound of a gasp, muffled soft against skin, a low groan – perhaps the sound of a name, although always just that little too low to be sure.

The sound of the clock chiming one, two, three; Sherlock Holmes fast asleep and John Watson still not, and John Watson easing himself out of bed at three in the morning to make his way silently back to his room.

John Watson did not remember those nights at all.

But what John Watson most definitely could not remember were those treasured occasions when, come one o'clock, or come two, both he and Holmes remained steadfastly full-dressed, Holmes on the bed staring up at the ceiling and he sitting close-at-hand in a chair. Holmes rambling comfortably about something else or other – the ligaments present in the human upper limbs, or the voice of some new and up-and-coming soprano – Watson saying nothing, but sitting there smiling a little, waiting patiently for the moment when he ran out of words. Sometimes it took minutes; other times, it took hours. But when it came, as it inevitably did come, the last tail of a word dissolving to nil, they just let the full quiet envelope them, not disturbing that precious silence between them that both knew meant much more than anything else.

And John Watson would watch as Sherlock Holmes fell asleep, slowly and quietly, those eyes sliding closed; and then, only then, would he close his eyes also, and the next morning he'd wake to Mrs Hudson's hard knock.

"With Mr Holmes again, doctor?"

"Discussing the case at Wycombe."

And Sherlock Holmes would turn in his bed with a mumble and complain about how it was still much too early, and Mrs Hudson could take her crumpets with her to Hell, and Watson would sit there with his neck in a cramp and his back very sore and a half-smile on his mouth and –

"My dear Watson, your newspaper is up-side down."

Watson blinked himself out of his own reflections, looking up to meet the eyes of Sherlock Holmes across the breakfast table in the sitting room.

"You've been staring at it for almost an hour, old boy. What on earth is it that you've been thinking about?"

Watson smiled. "I don't remember," he said.

Holmes looked curious, but didn't ask for anything more. His pipe had gone out and he fumbled around for the matches, busy in lighting it up once again. Watson watched him, a warm feel in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with Mrs Hudson's fresh tea.

_No, Holmes,_ he thought laughingly to himself; _I don't remember. I don't remember any of it, at all._

0-0-0

**The End.**

* * *

**A/N: Yes, that is the actual End. The final End. No more extensions, my friends; because I feel finally that I have rounded their relationship off, and this is where I'll leave it. **

**Now, just before I'm bombarded by people demanding explanation for why there was no explicit smut – I had, actually, intended for smut. I have the scene written in all its four-and-a-half pages of glory, sitting there on my laptop computer. BUT, as I said in the A/N for Part II, I realised as soon as it was written that it didn't have any place in the story; had I plonked it in, at Part IV or even Part V, it would have felt a bit tacky and out of place. In my opinion, the main focus of the Holmes/Watson relationship is not sex; it is what that sex **_**represents**_**, i.e. trust, security, intimacy, etc. I hope I got that across in this final Epilogue.**

**Anyway. Let me know what you thought about this – not just this Epilogue, but overall, what you thought about the whole fic. Let me know, let me know! I'd appreciate it extremely.**

**And I have already written another little Holmes/Watson One-Shot titled _Quindecim Secundus_ (**A new case, a stolen waistcoat, and Sherlock Holmes... John Watson never even stood a chance. Holmes/Watson, One-Shot_._**) - please please please check it out, it needs reviews! And I have decided to continue churning out Holmes/Watson fics while the inspiration lasts, so please put me on Author Alert as well. ;)**

**Please, please don't forget to review! And thank-you for all the phenomenal support! **


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